Is that the murmur of the far-off sea?
NORTH.
It is—the tide, may be, is on its return—is at "Connal's raging Ferry"—from Loch Etive—yet this is not its hour—'tis but the mysterious voice of Night.
BULLER.
Hush!
NORTH.
By moonlight and starlight, and to the voice of Night, I read these words from Mr Alison—"In the speech of Agamemnon to Idomeneus, in the Fourth Book of the Iliad, a circumstance is introduced altogether inconsistent both with the dignity of the speech, and the Majesty of Epic Poetry:—
'Divine Idomeneus! what thanks we owe
To worth like thine, what praise shall we bestow!
To Thee the foremost honours are decreed,
First in the fight, and every graceful deed.
For this, in banquets, when the generous bowls
Restore our blood, and raise the warriors' souls,
Though all the rest with stated rules be bound,
Unmixed, unmeasured, are thy goblets crowned.'"
SEWARD.
That is Pope. Do you remember Homer himself, sir?