But she must fall; and by her fall we learn
That cities, towers, wealth, world, and all shall quail:
No manhood might, nor nothing might prevail;

All were there prest full many a prince, and peer,
And many a knight that sold his death full dear.

Not worthy Hector, worthiest of them all,
Her hope, her joy, his force is now for naught:
O Troy, Troy, Troy, there is no boot but bale,
The hugy horse within thy walls is brought;
Thy turrets fall, thy knights, that whilom fought
In arms amid the field, are slain in bed,
Thy gods defiled, and all thy honor dead.

The flames upspring, and cruelly they creep
From wall to roof, till all to cinders waste:
Some fire the houses where the wretches sleep,
Some rush in here, some run in there as fast;
In everywhere or sword or fire they taste:

The walls are torn, the towers whirled to the ground;
There is no mischief but may there be found.

Cassandra yet there saw I how they haled
From Pallas' house, with spercled tress undone,
Her wrists fast bound, and with Greeks' rout empaled:
And Priam eke, in vain how he did run
To arms, whom Pyrrhus with despite hath done
To cruel death, and bathed him in the baign
Of his son's blood, before the altar slain.

But how can I describe the doleful sight,
That in the shield so, livelike fair did shine?

Sith in this world I think was never wight
Could have set forth the half, not half so fine:
I can no more, but tell how there is seen
Fair Ilium fall in burning red gledes down,
And, from the soil, great Troy, Neptunus' town.
Thomas Sackville.

A

PICTURE OF SCENES IN THE TROJAN WAR.

T last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy;
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen's rape the city to destroy,

Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven (it seemed) to kiss the turrets bow'd.

A thousand lamentable objects there,

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life: Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear,

Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife: The red blood reek'd, to shew the painter's strife; And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioneer

Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust; And from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:

MICHIGAN niversity o

TROY.

Such sweet observance in this work was had,
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold triumphing in their faces;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;

And here and there the painter interlaces

Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces;
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,
That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art

Of physiognomy might one behold!

The face of either 'cipher'd either's heart;

Their face their manners most expressly told: In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd; But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Shewed deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 't were encouraging the Greeks to fight;
Making such sober action with his hand,

That it beguiled attention, charm'd the sight;
In speech, it seem'd, his beard, all silver white,
Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly
Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces,

Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice;
All jointly listening, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their cars entice;

Some high, some low; the painter was so nice, The scalps of many, almost hid behind,

To jump up higher seem'd to mock the mind.

Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head,

His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear; Here one, being throng'd, bears back, all boll'n and red; Another, smother'd, seems to pelt and swear; And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words, It seem'd they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there;

Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind,
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined.

And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy

When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to field, Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy

To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; And to their hope they such odd action yield, That, through their light joy, seemed to appear (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear.

And, from the strond of Dardan where they fought,
To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran,

Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges; and their ranks began

To break upon the galled shore, and then Retire again, till meeting greater ranks

They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.

William Shakespeare.

JOY

CASSANDRA.

in Troja's courts abounded
Ere the lofty ramparts fell;
Hymns of jubilee resounded

From the golden-chorded shell.
Now from fields of strife and slaughter
Rests at peace each valiant head,
While to Priam's fairest daughter
Peleus' godlike son must wed.

There, bedecked with boughs of laurel,
Where the columned fanes extend,
Troop on troop, in bright apparel,
To the Thymbrian's altar bend.
Through the streets the Bacchic madness

Rushing comes with hollow swell,
And on thoughts of silent sadness
One alone is left to dwell.

Joyless most where joy exceeded,
Did Cassandra's footsteps rove,
Lonely, desolate, unheeded,

Through Apollo's laurel grove.
Mid the forest depths slow winding
Wandered the prophetic maid,