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Page 19
"The poet chooses for himself," said the courtly old captain.
"Let me sing you, then, of _the Olive Harp_"; and he struck the chords
in a gentle, quieting harmony, which attuned itself to his own spirit,
pleased as he was to find music and harmony and the olive of peace in
the midst of the rough bivouac, where he had come up to look for war.
But he was destined to be disappointed. Just as his prelude closed, one
of the young soldiers turned upon his elbow, and whispered
contemptuously to his neighbor: "Always _olives_, always _peace_: that's
all your music's good for!"
The boy spoke too loud, and Homer caught the discontented tone and words
with an ear quicker than the speaker had given him credit for. He ended
the prelude with a sudden crash on the strings, and said shortly, "And
what is better to sing of than the olive?"
The more courteous Philistines looked sternly on the young soldier; but
he had gone too far to be frightened, and he flashed back: "War is
better. My broadsword is better. If I could sing, I would sing to your
Ares; we call him Mars!"
Homer smiled gravely. "Let it be so," said he; and, in a lower tone, to
the captain, who was troubled at the breach of courtesy, he added, "Let
the boy see what war and Mars are for."
He struck another prelude and began. Then was it that Homer composed his
"Hymn to Mars." In wild measure, and impetuous, he swept along through
the list of Mars's titles and attributes; then his key changed, and his
hearers listened more intently, more solemnly, as in a graver strain,
with slower music, and an almost awed dignity of voice, the bard went
on.--
"Helper of mortals, hear!
As thy fires give
The present boldnesses that strive
In youth for honor;
So would I likewise wish to have the power
To keep off from my head thy bitter hour,
And quench the false fire of my soul's low kind,
By the fit ruling of my highest mind I
Control that sting of wealth
That stirs me on still to the horrid scath
Of hideous battle!
"Do thou, O ever blessed! give me still
Presence of mind to put in act my will,
Whate'er the occasion be;
And so to live, unforced by any fear,
Beneath those laws of peace, that never are
Affected with pollutions popular
Of unjust injury,
As to bear safe the burden of hard fates,
Of foes inflexive, and inhuman hates!"
The tones died away; the company was hushed for a moment; and the old
chief then said gravely to his petulant follower, "That is what _men_
fight for, boy." But the boy did not need the counsel. Homer's manner,
his voice, the music itself, the spirit of the song, as much as the
words, had overcome him; and the boasting soldier was covering his tears
with his hands.
Homer felt at once (the prince of gentlemen he) that the little
outbreak, and the rebuke of it, had jarred the ease of their unexpected
meeting. How blessed is the presence of mind with which the musician of
real genius passes from song to song, "whate'er the occasion be!" With
the ease of genius he changed the tone of his melody again, and sang his
own hymn, "To Earth, the Mother of all."
The triumphant strain is one which harmonizes with every sentiment; and
he commanded instantly the rapt attention of the circle. So engrossed
was he, that he did not seem to observe, as he sang, an addition to
their company of some soldiers from above in the valley, just _as_ he
entered on the passage:--
"Happy, then, are they
Whom thou, O great in reverence!
Are bent to honor. They shall all things find
In all abundance! All their pastures yield
Herds in all plenty. All their roofs are filled
With rich possessions.
High happiness and wealth attend them,
While, with laws well-ordered, they
Cities of happy households sway;
And their sons exult in the pleasure of youth,
And their daughters dance with the flower-decked girls,
Who play among the flowers of summer!
Such are the honors thy full hands divide;
Mother of Gods and starry Heaven's bride!"[A]
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