What of thy brother's words the cloud of horror In Death's dark net? O! tell me he was saved. Orestes. They live. Iphigenia. Oh Golden Sun! lend me thy rays, I pray thee tame thy heart, and hold it steady; Iphigenia. And is not that enough? Orestes. But half the tale of horror hast thou heard. Orestes. She also from the land of hope has gone. Iphigenia. What! Died she raving? Shedding her own blood? Orestes. No: but her blood brought death. Iphigenia. Speak more distinctly. Task not my mind to think. Uncertainty Of hellish night. Thy lovely lips constrain me His father's kinsman, willingly received him, Up to your dwellings, but that I at last Orestes. O! would that one could tell thee of his death! The Mother's Ghost, calling Night's ancient daughters, To you he is devoted." At the call Unhappy man! Orestes. Iphigenia. A brother's murder in like manner preys On thee. Your younger brother told me this. Orestes. Great soul! I cannot bear that thou shouldest be A web of falsehood for a stranger weave I wish deliverance, but not for me. I see thou art reluctant to remain : Then find the means of flight, and leave me here. Let my dead body tumble from the rock. Let my warm blood stream down into the Sea, And cheerfully commence your lives anew. [He withdraws.] As royal bounty, by its rich profusion That, which to thousands would be wealth, is nothing; Iphigenia. Immortal Gods! who, floating upon clouds, Who, with impatient violence would snatch it, Spend the pure day in bliss; is it for this That ye from all mankind have severed me, Yet crude, and fraught with death to him that eats. Oh! that this happiness so long delayed, Vanish not like the shade of a lost friend, Leaving the baffled heart to threefold misery. Orestes, [returning.] If on the Gods thou callest, for thee and Pylades, Name not my name with yours. Thou canst not save The guilty, tho' you share his curse and doom. Iphigenia. My fate to thine is bound indissolubly. The guilty screen from death, thou couldst not hide him I still at times can hear their horrid laugh. Tous couch the wolves around the tree that yields The gods now light thee. Orestes. To new hope Aye; through smoke and horror A happy fate, tho' as it seemed to us, I bring sweet incense Shall not a blessing from a Sister's lips Call down the helpful Gods from high Olympus? A stranger's presence, but my inmost heart Orestes. Is this Lyæus' Temple; and his Priestess With holy but licentious rage possessed? Iphigenia. Oh hear me! Look upon me! O! behold How, after long, long years, my heart expands To bless, and yearns to kiss the dearest head Long stretched to empty walls, are spread to clasp thee. Remove thine arm; and if thou needs must save Disclose your purpose to him, and spare me. Iphigenia. Recall thy thoughts, my brother. Recognize Her thou hast found, nor call a sister's joy, Pure heavenly rapture-guilty, shameful lust. Be turned to threefold wretchedness. Look on me! And in the Priestess findest thy long lost sister. Orestes. Unhappy Woman! Now the Sun shall witness The last scene of the horrors of our house. Is not Electra here? She too with us Orestes. It calls! It calls! And wouldst thou too de- Preys on itself. Come! Childless, guiltless come! Go down with me! Thou lookest at me with pity. To the warm stream of love that seethes within. [He sinks exhausted.] Iphigenia. This bliss! This misery! They are too much To bear alone. O, Pylades! where art thou? Oh precious friend! Where shall I find thine aid? (She goes out.) Orestes, [rousing himself.] One more! One more! Reach me, from Lethe's flood The last refreshing cup. Life's spasm soon Shall from my breast be washed. The tranquil spirit, What sounds come murmuring through the doubtful gloom? The boys sport round them. Is there then among you That sat with Gods in council. You are silent, [Iphigenia and Pylades enter. Orestes goes on.] Iphigenia. Ye twins, who to the human race dispense Thou, Dian, lovest thy brother above all Pylades. Dost thou not recognize this holy grove, Each moment now is precious. Our return Ye Gods, whose lightning cleaves the teeming clouds, CLASSICAL STUDIES. ESSAYS ON ANCIENT LITERATURE AND ART, with the Biography and Correspondence of Eminent Philologistsby Barnas Sears, Pres. Newton Theological Seminary; B. B. Edwards, Prof. Andover Theological Seminary; C. C. Felton, Prof. Harvard University. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, 1843—pp. 413. This is one of the numerous Germanico-classic works, which are every day pouring forth from the American press. It is made up of highly wrought essays on German Philology-Greek Literature-Classical Antiquity-Plastic Art of the Greeks, &c. which are somewhat affectedly attributed to sundry professors of the various schools of Germany as being opening lectures to their several classes. Beside these, there is what is called Philological Correspondence, being letters and fragments of letters, which purport to be translations of originals which passed at intervals within the last fifty years, or thereabouts, from one to another of the literati of the country aforesaid. Among these are letters from Rhunken, Ritter, Ernesti, Heyne, Schütz, &c., &c., &c. This book, the authors or editors have styled Classical Studies, with what propriety or pertinency, it is not easy to discover. The name of the book strikes us as having been an afterthought altogether. It is evidently a Salmagundi and furnished after being compounded, we doubt not, some little difficulty in suggesting a proper title, unless the authors cast lots for the name, and perchance fell on this we are utterly at a loss for a solution of the christening. And indeed if the preface did not suggest to us what the design of the book was-such a medley is it we should be still more puzzled to know why it was ever written at all. But happily, like the Dutchman's picture underneath which was written libero manu, "dis is de horse," we are furnished with an account of the intent and meaning of the volume itself. It is the joint labor, it will be observed, of three very distinguished * farmers, cunning and laborious artisans, men learned in physical and intellectu-moral science, but a meagre desiccated race, who, assimilating to their pursuits and stiff as parchment, could discourse, with nice precision, upon roots, augments and reduplications, or perhaps even rise to. that more extatic employment of scanning the Την δ' εμείβετ επειτα Βῶοπές ποτνια Ερε of Homer-verily these were, if we could hut see them, a useful and pleasant people! scholars-one, the first of whom, we had the pleasure and tion. There are minds upon which years of such culture profit of knowing in earlier and far happier hours, and we would be entirely thrown away. They might make adtake pleasure, after a considerable lapse of time, and in vances in science or art, or in the active employments of this somewhat distant land, in bearing voluntary testimony industrial labor, but classical learning is to them without to his amenity as a gentleman and his ripe acquirements as form or comeliness—a profitless expenditure of time and a scholar. But neither the memory of youthful preposses- money. Here is one grand defect of the present system sions, nor the distinguished position of these authors in of collegiate education-the universality of this study. In the worlds of Letters, shall deter us from expressing with extent, therefore, as well as degree, the assumption of our conscientious frankness the impressions which the perusa! authors, that classical learning is the staple of education of their book has left on our mind. If, therefore, it be not and ought to be a pursuit of life, is ridiculous in the exconsidered too uncharitable, we venture to surmise that treme. And yet unqualified as their assertions are-unthis volume was the product of some little desire on the limited as their arguments are, nothing less can be drawn part of these authors, to display their attainments in an- from their book. It must be admitted, as a liberal concescient and modern classical learning. This it undeniably sion, that they do sometimes hint at the possibility, that does--but it falls immeasureably short of sustaining, illus- there may be other pursuits in life-but no other means of trating, or enforcing the extravagant views on the subject culture. And only carry out, if it were possible, into reof classical literature put forth in the preface. But pass-alization their whimsies on this subject and we should ing by all minor objections and assuming, per saltum, that have a nation, not of sun-embrowned, healthy and thrifty the matter of this book is fair and legitimate argument and illustration, as far as it goes for the positions taken, still we deny its sufficiency to sustain those positions, and we deny utterly the truth of the positions and views themselves. The prevailing theme and leading idea of the preface is, that Classical Studies are infinitely too much neglected that they ought to be infinitely more cultivated-that they form the staple commodity of intellectual life-that they are indispensable to the lawyer, divine, physician, farmer and mechanic, and everybody else, and in short, that they We make these remarks in no disparagement of classical are the to war of existence. We do not assert that these learning, pursued within reasonable limits-and if asked are the explicit declarations of the volume, but they are what limits, we reply, the usual collegiate course-but of the unavoidable inferences from the unqualified glorification the extravagant views and pretensions of professed schoof classical lore. If the views of these authors import any lars. Thoroughly imbued, saturated with the lore of their thing, they involve these absurd pretensions. Now all this, profession, they poré over their musty volumes, eviscein the latitude contended for in this book, we deny. A rating from them antiquated and useless verbiage, or waging part of this is true, but not the whole of it. Classical stu-a furious logomachy about the relative and distinctive diff dies, to a certain degree of acquirement and to a limited erences between tweedle dum and tweedle dee, now and pertion of mankind, are, of essential value, in aiding-for then exclaiming, with most characteristic fervor of language, they only aid to discipline the mind by developing the "hic labor, hoe opus est;" they, meanwhile, in blissful ignodiscriminative power of the intellect-in cultivating the rance of most other knowledge are laughed at by the world taste-in enlarging the vocable power of nations, these for their pedantry and folly. In the homely language of they certainly tend to. But it must be remembered, that Carlyle, “they neglect the inner heart of things in care for these are but means to be employed upon something higher, the mere wrappages and bandages thereof." And a poet far something nobler! Mental discipline, discrimination, taste, elder than he, Goldsmith, says, "There is more knowledge language, are comparatively useless, if they be not turned to be acquired from one page of the volume of mankind, if away from these mere appliances for their own production-the scholar only knows how to read, than in volumes of the classics-and employed upon other noble and more antiquity. We grow learned, not wise, by too long a conuseful departments of science and of art. Nature smiles tinuance at college (studying classics). Every subject acin vain if we do not look upon her. She reveals her secrets quires an adventitious importance to him who considers it to the retort and crucible uselessly, unless we scan her with application; and pursuing speculation beyond the revealings. The earth turns its fecund plains to the upri- bounds of reason one too frequently becomes ridiculously sing sun in vain-and the waving grain will not sing a joyous earnest in trifles or absurdity." The truth is, the days of welcome to his morning light, unless the hand of man cast the schoolmen have passed away-lore is no longer learnthe seed into her sides. Sharp keels will vex no foreign ing. The beautiful fictions, the varied mythology of the stores, unless the sails be given to the winds, and there be ancient world have yielded to sterner truths and å sublimer men to give them. But if every one be turned classic- God. Naiads no longer swim in streams from which steammunger all this must cease, for a profound and intimate boats pour their hissing breath,-hor do nymphs dance acquaintance with classical learning is the result of life- around Bandusian fountains to the music of a. grinding time labor. To exhaust, therefore, the discipline and taste mill. Fauns and Satyrs have fled affrighted from their acquired by a limited study-in exhuming Greek roots and sylvan homes at the thunder of the modern railway car. discussing the digammate power-veiling the eyes to the Valclusan meadows have bared their bosoms to the burvaried sublimities of the face of nature, or the deep won-nished ploughshare-Morse has outstript the telegraphic ders of her womb, neglecting the beautiful and important Mercury and Daguerre usurped the reins of the charior of science of anthropology and mathematical and philosophr- the sun fallen from the hands of astonished Phobus. What' cal study, "is to neglect the great destiny of man and to need we then of classic lore. This is not the great need Fakter with the great purpose, of life. To some extent, at the present juncture of this mighty changing and improclassical learing tends to open the eye of the mind and ving nation-but diversified knowledge, well imbedded in usloose, the tongue of man. But they are not the exclu- a good, substantial, healthful moral foundation. This is sive but coparcenary means in these great results. This our great need. trath these authors seem to have entirely overlooked, or Richmond. have barely admitted as possible. But again, only parti- | *We quote from memory, not having seen. Homer for ally true as are their pretensions, there is another limita- some years and do not profess accuracy. A. J. C. THE SONG OF THE SCALD, BIORNE. BY HENRY B. HIRST. Biorne, Biarne, or as it is more properly written in the Norse of Eld, Bjorn, Grimolfson, a Scald or Bard, and, at the same time, a Viking or Sea King, was one of the earliest of the Norsemen, who landed on the shores of America. Eric Randa, or Eric the Red, was the first. The story of the Scald is somewhat romantically told in the following ballad. But a sequel still remains. Nearly thirty years afterwards, in 1026, an Icelander, named Gudliep, sailed for Dublin, but blown about by adverse winds, landed on an unknown shore. He and his crew were seized by the savages and borne into the interior. There they were accosted, in their own tongue, by a venerable chief, who, by dint of persuasion, saved them from the tender mercies of the natives. To their great surprise, he inquired after several individuals in Iceland, and, on their embarkation, made them the bearers of a gold ring to Thurida, the sister of the Sea King, Snorre Gode, and of a sword to her son. She had subsequently married. He refused to disclose his name, but on their arrival home no doubt was entertained that he was the Scald Bjorn, Thurida's Poet-lover, who had emigrated from Iceland in 998. I. Up with my pennon, My pennon of red! With its black raven rending Let us fly forth, like falcons, II. What care we? What care we There are lands where the sun Never ceases to shine, And the forests bear wine; There are lands where the snow A wonder-a terror A horror-to see; There are lands that have flowers Like the hues of their skies, As fragrant with sweets As their own maidens' sighs, Where seraph-like birds Sing from dawn until night, And even breathe music 'Till morning breathes light. IV. And there, the sleek Lords Of the South hold their sway O'er a people as timid And these, the weak cowards, Of a Norseman's fierce falchion On such treasures as these, V. Thurida, Thurida, False maiden, farewell! That the Scald dared to love thee Shall history tell; That he scorned thee at last Shall be written-as red His harp-strings shall speak He will sing how the Poet To earth's loveliest one; And how, when he told her His love, she returned But her scorn for the hopes In his bosom inurned, And bade her base vassals With fire-flashing eye, "Let the song-singing lover, The rude runer die!" VII. Oh! Odin! 'twas pleasure- With one surge of my steel How their heads rolled around, Like tree-tops the hurricane Hurls to the ground- And she, pale, proud maiden! Heaving high, as she felt When before her I knelt, To carry her falsehood I pressed her pale lips 'Twas the kiss of young hate! And I left her to Odin, To conscience and fate I left her-her brother's Proud palace in flame |