'With sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required;
Celestial pity I again implore :-

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!'
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,

Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands ;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy!
What doth she look on? Whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?

His vital presence? his corporeal mould ?
It is if sense deceive her not-'tis He!

And a god leads him, winged Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake-and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear: 'Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodamia! that at Jove's command

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift; behold him face to face!"

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her lord to clasp ;
Again that consummation she assayed;
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts-but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.

'Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
This is our palace,-yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode.'

'Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect :-spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward for thy fidelity.

*Laodamia, after her husband Protesilaus was slain before Troy, begged the Gods to allow her to see him for only three hours. The request was granted; and when Protesilaus was carried back by Hermes, Laodamia died of grief.

;

And something also did my worth obtain
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not withhold :
A generous cause a victim did demand;

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;

A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain.'

Supreme of heroes-bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore :
Thou found'st-and I forgive thee-here thou art—
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave;
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips are fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
No spectre greets me,-no vain shadow this;
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side!'

*

*

*

*

Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parca threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

'This visage tells thee that my doom is past:

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast,

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains :
Calm pleasure there abide-majestic pains.
Be taught, O faithful consort, to control
Rebellious passion for the Gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult of the soul;
A fervent not ungovernable love.

:

Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn.

And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
In reason, in self-government too slow;

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek

Our blest reunion in the shades below.

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised,
By thy affections raised and solemnised.
Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend—

Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven,
That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.'

Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears!
Round the dear shade she would have clung-'tis vain :
The hours are past-too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain.

Swift, towards the realms that know no earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.
She-who, though warned, exhorted, and reproved,
Thus died, from passion desperate to a crime-
By the just Gods, whom no weak pity moved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to mortal suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man,-and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes.-Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
A constant interchange of growth and blight.

Wordsworth.

Ex. 70.

The Lord of Burleigh.

In her ear he whispers gayly,
'If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden I have watched thee daily,
And I think thou lov'st me well.'

She replies in accents fainter,
'There is none I love like thee.'
He is but a landscape-painter;
And a village maiden she.
He to lips that fondly falter,
Presses his without reproof;
Leads her to the village altar,

And they leave her father's roof.

'I can make no marriage present;
Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life.'
Then by parks and lodges going,
See the lordly castles stand;
Summer woods, about them blowing,
Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
'Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.'
So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers;
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer,
Evermore she seems to gaze

On that cottage growing nearer,

Where they twain will spend their happy days,

Oh! but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home;

She will order all things duly,

When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns ;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before :
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footsteps firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
'All this is mine and thine.'

Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord Burleigh, fair and free,

G

Not a lord in all the county
Is so great a lord as he..
All at once the colour flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin;
As it were with shame she blushes,
And her spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove :
But he clasped her like a lover,

And he cheered her soul with love.
So she strove against her weakness,
Though at times her spirit sank:
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness
To all duties of her rank.
And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such
That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burden of an honour

Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
As she murmured, 'Oh! that he
Were once more that landscape-painter
Which did win my heart from me!'
So she drooped and drooped before him,
Fading slowly from his side:

Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,

Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh House, by Stamford town.
And he came to look upon her,

And he looked at her and said,
'Bring the dress and put it on her,
That she wore when she was wed.'
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.

Tennyson.