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guard, while distant lie our powers,
And let the matrons hang with lights the towers;
Lest, under covert of the midnight shade,
The insidious foe the naked town invade.
Suffice, to-night, these orders to obey;
A nobler charge shall rouse the dawning day.
The gods, I trust, shall give to Hector's hand
From these detested foes to free the land,
Who plough'd, with fates averse, the watery way:
For Trojan vultures a predestined prey.
Our common safety must be now the care;
But
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Homer, that no man of
a true poetical spirit is master of himself while he reads him. What he
writes is of the most animated nature imaginable; every thing moves, every
thing lives, and is put in action. If a council be called, or a battle
fought, you are not coldly informed of what was said or done as from a
third person; the reader is hurried out of himself by the force of the
poet's imagination, and turns in one place to a hearer, in another to a
spectator. The course of his verses resembles that of the army he
describes,
Hoid' ar' isan hosei te puri chthon pasa nemoito.
"They pour along like a fire that sweeps the whole earth before it." It
is, however, remarkable, that his fancy, which is everywhere vigorous, is
not discovered immediately at the beginning of his poem in its fullest
splendour: it grows in the progress both upon himself and others, and
becomes on fire, like a chariot-wheel, by its own rapidity. Exact
disposition, just thought, correct elocution, polished numbers, may have
been found in a thousand; but this poetic fire, this "vivida vis animi,"
in a very few. Even in works where all those are imperfect or neglected,
this can overpower criticism, and make us admire even while we disapprove.
Nay, where this appears, though attended with absurdities, it brightens
all the rubbish about it, till we see nothing but its own splendour. This
fire is discerned in Virgil, but discerned as through a glass, reflected
from Homer, more shining than fierce, but everywhere equal and constant:
in Lucan and Statius it bursts out in sudden, short, and interrupted
flashes: In Milton it glows like a furnace kept up to an uncommon ardour
by the force of art: in Shakspeare it strikes before we are aware, like an
accidental fire from heaven: but in Homer, and in him only, it burns
everywhere clearly and everywhere irresistibly.
I shall here endeavour to show how this vast invention exerts itself in a
manner superior to that of any poet through all the main constitue