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MARATHON.

Of the battle of Marathon we have not only the heroic narrative of Herodotus, but supplementary traditions, illustrations, as it were, of the grand picture. Herodotus only writes, that Epizelius fighting was blinded by a vision; but we have, in Pausanias, the pendant story, that a man appeared in the thick fray, of rustic form and dress, and hewed down many Persians with a plough-share, and then vanished, and whom an oracle commanded to be worshipped as the hero Echetlœus; this was evidently the vision that blinded the champion. Again, the old antiquarian tells, that around the tombs of the slain, still in his own late age, there was a tumult of horses prancing and men combating all night long, which to listen for with a wilful curiosity brought evil fate, but not so when perceived by a casual hearer. Thus was Marathon, for ages, a field of holy fable-thus the maturity of Athenian splendour was linked to its infant energies, and Aristophanes regards the 'Mapa wveMáxo, with the same feeling of pride and respect with which Nestor looks back on the friends of his youth, "who are far different from what men are now-a-days."

I COULD believe that under such a sky,

Thus grave, thus streaked with thunderlight, of yore,
The small Athenian troop rushed onward, more

As Bacchanals, than men about to die.

How weak that massive motley enemy

Seemed to those hearts, full-fed on that high lore,
Which, for their use, in his melodious store,
Old Homer had laid up immortally.

Thus Marathon was Troy,-thus here again,

They were at issue with the barbarous East,

And favouring Gods spoke out, and walked the plain ; And every man was an anointed priest

Of Nemesis, empowered to chastise

The rampant insolence that would not be made wise.

THE CONCENTRATION OF ATHENS.

THE Poet Keats, to whom the old Greek mind seemed instinctively familiar, in an unpublished fragment, speaks of the Greek Poets as "Bards who died content on pleasant sward,

Leaving great verse unto a little clan,"

and continues with a prayer that he too may attain their old vigour, and sing

"Unheard,

Save of the quiet primrose and the span

Of Heaven and few ears."

WHY should we wonder that from such small space
Of Earth so much of human strength upgrew,
When thus were woven bonds that tighter drew
Round the Athenian heart than faith or race?

Thus patriotism could each soul imbue
With personal affections, face to face,
And hom was felt in every public place,
And brotherhood was never rare or new.

Thus Wisdom, from the neighbouring Parthenon,
Down on the Areopagus could fix

A watchful gaze: thus from the rising Pnyx
The Orator's inspiring voice could reach
Half o'er the City, and his solemn speech
Was as a father's counsel to his son.

PELASGIAN AND CYCLOPEAN WALLS.

YE cliffs of masonry, enormous piles,

Which no rude censure of familiar Time
Nor record of our puny race defiles,
In dateless mystery ye stand sublime,
Memorials of an age of which we see
Only the types in things that once were Ye.

Whether ye rest upon some bosky knoll,
Your feet by ancient myrtles beautified,
Or seem, like fabled dragons, to unroll
Your swarthy grandeurs down a bleak hill-side,

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PELASGIAN AND CYCLOPEAN WALLS.

Still on your savage features is a spell
That makes ye half divine, ineffable.

With joy, upon your height I stand alone,

As on a precipice, or lie within

Your shadow wide, or leap from stone to stone,

Pointing my steps with careful discipline,

And think of those grand limbs whose nerve could bear

These masses to their places in mid-air ;

Of Anakim, and Titans, and of days
Saturnian, when the spirit of man was knit
So close to Nature, that his best essays
At Art were but in all to follow it,
In all,-dimension, dignity, degree;

And thus these mighty things were made to be.

WRITTEN AT MYCENÆ.

I SAW a weird procession glide along

The vestibule

before the Lion's gate; t

A Man of godlike limb and warrior state,

Who never looked behind him, led the throng;

Next a pale Girl, singing sweet sorrow, met
My eyes, who ever pointed to a fleck

Of ingrained crimson on her marble neck;

Her a fierce Woman, armed with knife and net, Close followed, whom a Youth pursued with smile, Once mild, now bitter-mad, himself the while Pursued by three foul Shapes, gory and

Dread Family! . I saw another day

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grey :

The phantom of that Youth, sitting alone,
Quiet, thought-bound, a stone upon a stone.

* πρόπυλα τάδε. Elect. 1391.

This piece of Archaic sculpture is very spirited; I think the Lions could not have had their heads as Clarke describes; they must have been thrown more back, like the Lions rampant in our heraldic bear. ings. How strange it is that the ruins of Mycena, extensive and certain as they are, should have been so late an object of interest, that Spon and Wheler should have never heard of them, and Chandler forgot to go and see them.

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