’Tis Ares’ self. I saw his crispèd beard;
I saw beneath his helm his curlèd locks.’
The coming of Athene helmed ‘in silver or electron’ and her transformation of Ulysses are not, as the way is with the only modern dramas that popular criticism holds to be dramatic, the climax of an excitement of the nerves, but of that unearthly excitement which has wisdom for fruit, and is of like kind with the ecstasy of the seers, an altar flame, unshaken by the winds of the world, and burning every moment with whiter and purer brilliance.
Mr. Bridges has written it in what is practically the classical manner, as he has done in Achilles in Scyros—a placid and charming setting for many placid and charming lyrics—
‘And ever we keep a feast of delight
The betrothal of hearts, when spirits unite,
Creating an offspring of joy, a treasure
Unknown to the bad, for whom
The gods foredoom
The glitter of pleasure