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Freely, and without ransom, be restored
Thus having said, the augur took his seat.
“ Prophet of evil, never hadst thou yet
To him the great Achilles, swift of foot,
Then the king Agamemnon answered thus : “Nay, use no craft, all valiant as thou art, Godlike Achilles : thou hast not the power To circumvent nor to persuade me thus. Think'st thou, that, while thou keepest safe thy prize, I shall sit idly down, deprived of mine? Thou bid'st me give the maiden back. . 'Tis well
If to my hands the noble Greeks shall bring
at will. Another time we will confer of this. Now come, and forth into the great salt sea Launch a black ship, and muster on the deck Men skilled to row; and put a hecatomb On board; and let the fair-cheeked maid embark, Chryseis. Send a prince to bear command, Ajax, Idomeneus, or the divine Ulysses, or thyself, Pelides, thou Most terrible of men, that with due rites Thou soothe the anger of the archer-god.”
Achilles, the swift-footed, with stern look Thus answered : “ Ha! thou mailed in impudence And bent on lucre ! Who of all the Greeks Can willingly obey thee on the march, Or bravely battling with the enemy? I came not to this war because of wrong Done to me by the valiant sons of Troy. No feud had I with them: they never took My beeves or horses; nor in Phthia's realm, Deep-soiled and populous, spoiled my harvest-fields. For many a shadowy mount between us lies, And waters of the wide-resounding sea. Man unabashed ! we follow thee, that thou Mayst glory in avenging upon Troy The grudge of Menelaus and thy own. Thou shameless one! and yet thou hast for this Nor thanks nor care.
Thou threatenest now to take From me the prize for which I bore long toils In battle; and the Greeks decreed it mine. I never take an equal share with thee Of booty when the Grecian host has sacked Some populous Trojan town. My hands perform The harder labors of the fields in all The tumult of the fight : but, when the spoil Is shared, the largest share of all is thine; While I, content with little, see my ships Weary with combat. I shall now go home To Plithia : better were it to be there With my beaked ships. But here, where I am held In little honor, thou wilt fail, I think, To gather, in large measure, spoil and wealth.”
Him answered Agamemnon, king of men :“ Desert, then, if thou wilt: I ask thee not To stay for me. There will be others left
To do me honor yet; and, best of all,
The rage of Peleus' son, as thus he spake,
Book I. 1-267.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
BORN FEB. 27, 1807, PORTLAND, ME.
As Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres in Bowdoin College from 1829 to 1835, and in Harvard University from 1835 to 1854, Mr. Longfellow has done much to refine and polish the literary taste of his time, both as critic and poet. It is superfluous to speak in praise of his numerous literary productions, since they are sought with equal eagerness at home and abroad. A thorough student in the polite literature of all nations, a welcome guest and intelligent observer in American and European society, a poet of purest thought and expression, he ennobles life with so much generous human sympathy in all his writings, that they are read and admired as the thoughts of a cherished friend.
“Outre Mer,” 1835; “ Hyperion,” and “Voices of the Night,” 1839; " Evangeline,”. 1847; “The Spanish Student,” 1843; “ The Golden Legend," 1845; * Ballads and Poems," 1841; “Kavanagh.” 1848; many minor Poems. and Poetry of Europe,"' 1845; “ Belfry of Bruges;" Seaside and Fireside," 1849; “ The Song of Hiawatha,” 1855; “ The Courtship of Miles Standish,” 1858.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream;
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real, life is earnest ;
And the grave is not its goal:
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting;
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Funeral-marches to the grave.
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strite.
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant;
Let the dead Past bury its dead :
Heart within, and God o'erhead.
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints on the sands of Time, -
Sailing o'er Lite's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Learn to labor and to wait.
THE REAPER AND TILE FLOWERS.
THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death ;
And with his sickle keen
“ Shall I have naught that is fair ? ” saith he;
“ Have naught but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”
He kissed their drooping leaves :
He bound them in his sheaves.
“ My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled : * Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care;
These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love:
In the fields of light above.