y comes the mock at himself--the modern English Greek--(followed up
by the 'degenerate into hands like mine' in the song itself); and
then--to amazement, forth he thunders in his Achilles voice. We have had
one line of him in his clearness--five of him in his depth--sixteen of
him in his play. Hear now but these, out of his whole heart:--

'What,--silent yet? and silent _all_?
Ah no, the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let _one_ living head,
But one, arise--we come--we come:"
--'Tis but the living who are dumb.'

Resurrection, this, you see like Buerger's; but not of death unto death.

'Sound like a distant torrent's fall.' I said the _whole_ heart of Byron
was in this passage. First its compassion, then its indignation, and the
third element, not yet examined, that love of the beauty of this world
in which the three--unholy--children, of its Fiery Furnace were like to
each other; but Byron the widest-hearted. Scott and Burns love Scotland
more than Nature itself: for Burns the moon must rise over Cumnock
Hills,--for Scott, the Rymer's glen divide the Eildons; but, for Byron,
Loch-na-Gar _with Ida_, looks o'er Troy, and the soft murmurs of the Dee
and the Bruar change into voices of the dead on distant Marathon.

Yet take the parallel from Scott, by a field of homelier rest:--

'And silence aids--though the steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer tide, so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

Naught living meets the eye or ear,
But well I ween the dead are near;
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid our Lady's Chapel low,
Yet still beneath the hallowed soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid
Where erst his simple fathers prayed.'

And last take the same note of sorrow--with Burns's finger on the fall
of it:

'Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens,
Ye hazly shaws and briery dens,
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens
Wi' toddlin' din,
Or foamin' strang wi' hasty stens
Frae lin to lin.'

As you read, one after another, these fragments of chant by the great
masters, does not a sense come upon you of some element in their
passion, no less than in their sound, different, specifically, fr