in of Troy, that scene of heroism, which, for three thousand
years, has attracted the attention and interested the feelings and
fancy of the civilized world.

Whether Lord Byron entertained any doubt of Homer's Troy ever having
existed, is not very clear. It is probable, from the little he says
on the subject, that he took no interest in the question. For
although no traveller could enter with more sensibility into the
local associations of celebrated places, he yet never seemed to care
much about the visible features of antiquity, and was always more
inclined to indulge in reflections than to puzzle his learning with
dates or dimensions. His ruminations on the Troad, in Don Juan,
afford an instance of this, and are conceived in the very spirit of
Childe Harold.

And so great names are nothing more than nominal,
And love of glory's but an airy lust,
Too often in its fury overcoming all
Who would, as 'twere, identify their dust
From out the wide destruction which, entombing all,
Leaves nothing till the coming of the just,
Save change. I've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted--time will doubt of Rome.

The very generations of the dead
Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb,
Until the memory of an age is fled,
And buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom.
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read,
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom,
Which once named myriads, nameless, lie beneath,
And lose their own in universal death?

No task of curiosity can indeed be less satisfactory that the
examination of the sites of ancient cities; for the guides, not
content with leading the traveller to the spot, often attempt to
mislead his imagination, by directing his attention to circumstances
which they suppose to be evidence that verifies their traditions.
Thus, on the Trojan plain, several objects are still shown which are
described as the self-same mentioned in the Iliad. The wild fig-
trees, and the tomb of Ilus, are yet there--if the guides may be
credited. But they were seen with incredulous eyes by the poet; even
the tomb of Achilles appears to have been regarded by him with equal
scepticism; still his description of the scene around is striking,
and tinted with some of his happiest touches.

There on the green and village-cotted hill is
Flanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea,
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles--
They say so. Bryant says the contrary