And first he wrought a mighty shield of solid work entire, Five fold he made the inner shield, with cunning skill bedight. In it he wrought two cities; in the one were marriage songs, In it he wrought a fallow field where plowers many a one In it he wrought the harvest-time; and in the yellow land The youths were reaping, holding sharp bright sickles in their hand; Some handfuls fall along the rows, and some the shearers bind; And boys were gathering up the gleanings following on behind. A sceptred king among them stood surveying their employ; And some prepared beneath an oak the feast of harvest joy. These and many others are the wonders of the shield; and with this, and the rest of the arms, Achilles goes forth, knowing that his course would be short, but glorious. The gods now mingle unrestrainedly in the fight; and the combat assumes a higher and more awful cast. Hector flies, and is only saved by Apollo from the wrath of his foe. mortal foes, the hero engages with the river Scamander, the offspring of the gods, who rises in defence of his Trojans to overwhelm their destroyer. He flies before the rushing waters; the river pursues where he flies; till at last Hera, fearing for her Greeks and their chief, beseeches the fire god, who burns up the river. This scene, wild and supernatural as it is, is told grandly and appropriately; the personality and power given to inanimate things is mysteriously shadowed out, and an impression of awe and terror left on the mind of the reader. The next book (the twenty-second) completes the glory of Achilles. His great foe, the slayer of his friend, is slain by him, and dragged round the walls of Troy at the wheels of his chariot. This being accomplished, he performs the funeral rites to his yet unburied friend, and institutes solemn games over his tomb. But strikingly beautiful is the close of this wonderful poem. The aged Priam, the disconsolate sire of Hector, comes to the fiery Achilles to beg his body. The sacred corse has been preserved many days miraculously—the wounds have been healed-the blood is washed by unseen hands. The meeting of age and youth, helplessness and strength, sorrow and fury, is powerfully related by this great master of human feelings. The savage warrior is melted; the sad father bears back his son the last defence of Troy-the pile is lit; the sacred rites performed; and the action ceases, with 'Twas thus they wrought the burial rites of Hector good and true. Thus ends a poem, which in very many respects, most deserves the admiration of mankind of all that have ever been composed. It raises a trifling piratical war into a subject of deep and lasting interest. invests men of no historical importance with undying names. It arrests the grandeur and beauty of nature, and in a few short words or lines raises up a thousand images in the soul. It deals alike with the majestic and the minute, the terrible and the pathetic; and in its dealings with all these, stands unrivalled. From scenes of promiscuous bloodshed, and superhuman fury, to pictures of domestic tenderness, the master's hand is alike seen in all which he touches or describes. It has one faculty, which belongs to none but the greatest productions of human genius, and the inspired writings, that of appearing more beautiful the oftener it is read. From this book the sages of Ancient Greece took their maxims and morals; her warriors their tactics, and her statesmen their politics. There is no poet who has not drawn from this source; the incidents of the Iliad, and the legends which have been built on them, have formed an inexhaustible fund for dramatic plots, lyric allusions, and superstructure of new epic poems; the similes have furnished many very beautiful descriptive sketches, which have been worked up, and are even now worked up, by modern artists in verse. In our next chapter we shall give a similar sketch of the Odyssey; a poem not holding so high a place as the Iliad, but likely, from reasons which we shall then explain, always to be a greater favourite. Meantime we will take leave of our readers with the following sonnet, which occurred to us while ruminating on the subject of this chapter: Ilion, along whose streets in olden days Shone that divinest form, for whose sweet face AN INCIDENT AT THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. "ADIEU, dear, dear Walter, God will protect those who trust in him; to his care I commit you!" were the parting words of Mrs. Leslie to her husband, on the memorable 18th of June, 1815, ere he joined his brave companions on that field on which so many were destined to fall. Though Mrs. Leslie attempted to speak calmly, her voice faltered. She felt that it was perhaps the last time that he would ever fold her in his arins, and invoke heaven's choicest blessings upon her. Captain Leslie dashed the gathering tear from his eye-a tear for which no one need have felt shame, proceeding, as it did, from the purest and holiest emotions. "A last kiss, my Helen, and I must leave you! I did not think I had been so weak," he said, attempting to smile, then continued, "If I return in safety I shall be but more dear to you; if I fall God will protect you, and mine will be a fate of which a soldier might be proud." His fine features lighted up as he spoke; he pressed his wife to his heart, imprinted one long kiss on her pale quivering lips; and without daring to trust another glance, he moved from the room, and Helen was alone among strangers. For some minutes she wept bitterly; then, sinking on her knees, she prayed long and fervently for the safety of her husband. But a few weeks had Helen been a bride; she was scarcely more than a child; and until that hour had never known grief, though an orphan. Her parents had both died ere she could know the loss she had sustained; and their place was well supplied by her paternal grandmother. Beautiful, lovely, and sweet tempered, Helen was from infancy a favourite with all. It was the surprize of her acquaintance that she should escape any baneful effects from the flattering attentions she received from all, at a time, when, by the generality of girls, adulation is eagerly received, and too often corrupts the heart. Helen preserved the same true simplicity of character. Mrs. Seymour was endowed with strong good sense, she knew that her darling Helen would not forget in a few hours, the principles which had been instilled from her earliest childhood, and did not fear her joining occasionally in the gaieties of life. Helen proved herself worthy of the confidence reposed in her. Beautiful, talented, and above all unaffected, she fully justified Mrs. Seymour's proud affection. When sixteen, the arrival of a distant relation gave a new tenor to her existence. Captain Leslie had returned from India, his constitution shattered by the climate; and was recommended by the physician he consulted, to spend some time in Devonshire. He remembered the kind welcome he had always received from Mrs. Seymour; and he wrote to offer to pay a visit at the Abbey, if Mrs. Seymour would be disposed to submit to the inconvenience of nursing an invalid. The immediate and kind answer he received convinced Captain Leslie that Mrs. Seymour was unchanged in heart. He reached the Abbey late one evening, and was met by Helen, who welcomed him, apologising for the temporary absence of her grandmother. Captain Leslie paused, "Can I have understood you rightly?" he said at length. "Can I be addressing little Helen; Miss Seymour, I should say?" he continued with a smile. Helen answered in the affirmative. "Ten years have made some slight difference in your appearance," was the laughing rejoinder. "I have no doubt of it!" said Helen. She might have added, it has done so in yours. For in the pale sallow Captain Leslie, she could not have recognized the handsome, merry-looking boy, from whom she had parted. "Grandmama will explain that I really am your little play-fellow," she continued, on the entrance of Mrs. Seymour. Week after week passed, and still Captain Leslie lingered at the Abbey. Helen was charmed with their guest, he was so superior to any one she had before seen. There was a gentle courtesy in his manner, and his remarks shewed a highly cultivated mind. "I wonder if I had a brother whether I should love him better than I do Walter," she said one day to Mrs. Seymour. This was said in perfect unconsciousness of the state of her own heart; for neither Miss Seymour for her grandmother seemed to be aware of what had afforded speculation for the lovers of gossip. Helen knew that every day rendered Walter but more dear to her; yet she never thought of questioning the nature of these feelings. Captain Leslie felt almost equal doubts upon the subject. He had been accustomed to be sought, and the kind yet calm manners of Helen towards him were so new, that he sometimes fancied such indifference, as he termed it, must proceed from an unknown engagement existing between her and another. This suspicion at first told him the state of his own feelings. He had at first admired the extreme loveliness of Helen, but since then he had learnt to respect her character. From evil examples he had become habituated, not openly to scoff at religion, for there was still sufficient of better feelings to prevent this, but to disregard what he had once considered sacred. Now he felt a reverence for the pure and holy feelings of Helen; and sighed that he should ever have considered religion of little or no importance. He could not bear to think of Helen as the bride of another; and perhaps after all, his supposition might be incorrect, and Helen might be free. Actuated by these feelings, he informed Mrs. Seymour of his intention of leaving the Abbey in a few days. He watched Helen narrowly as he spoke; she seemed to be reading; and as he purposely dwelt upon the probability of his never returning from India, her head bent over the book, to which she seemed to give undivided attention. Yet he fancied that it was some emotion foreign to the subject by which she seemed so engrossed,-which caused her cheek to become deathly pale; and he fancied a tear rested one moment on her long eyelashes, and then fell on her book.-What a contradiction is human nature! Though at another time Captain Leslie would have died sooner than inflict a moment's pain upon Helen: yet so flattering was this emotion to him, that he enlarged upon the subject, and spoke of the effect the climate had upon his health. During his harangue Helen made her escape, a minute after and they saw her pass the window. "Where can Helen be going?" was the exclamation of Mrs. Seymour, "She must have forgotten that the carriage is ordered at two." Very likely!" was the reply. "I will remind her of it ;" and without waiting for any remark, Captain Leslie left the room. He knew so well the favourite rambles of Helen, that he had no difficulty in finding her. She was sitting in an attitude of deep thought in the summer-house, where he had so often read to her. She was not weeping, though a large tear still rested on her cheek. On the entrance of Captain Leslie she started. "Helen, dearest! you are ill, or unhappy," he said tenderly. "What can make my Helen unhappy?" Poor Helen was silent. In that minute she seemed to live years. She felt how deeply she loved, She strove to speak calmly; but the words died on her lips. Her hand was pressed by his; and almost involuntarily, she slightly returned the pressure. "Can you be sorry that I leave you, Helen ?" and the musical voice of Captain Leslie slightly quivered with emotion. "Tell me, my own Helen is it so ?" Helen burst into tears. "Can you ask me?" she said reproachfully. How often has a similar scene been described. It is needless to repeat the oft-told tale, those who have never felt, can never feel,-will laugh at a description of what they cannot understand;-while those who have felt the almost overpowering bliss of hearing sincere vows of faith and affection from the being they love best on earth will own, that emotions such as these are too deep and holy for the animadversions of the less sensible portion of the community. Before they returned to the Abbey, Helen had promised to become the wife of Leslie. It was with some little surprise that Mrs. Seymour received the intelligence. She spoke of the hardships to which a soldier's wife must be exposed. Helen had no answer to offer, but that many |