res.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, viii.

HATEFULNESS OF WAR.

(_By Homer._)

Cursed is the man, and void of law and right,
Unworthy property, unworthy light,
Unfit for public rule, or private care;
That wretch, that monster, who delights in war:
Whose lust is murder, and whose horrid joy
To tear his country, and his kind destroy!

_Pope_, _Iliad_, ix.

FALSEHOOD.

(_By Homer._)

Who dares think one thing, and another tell,
My heart detests him as the gates of hell.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, ix.

SHOWERS OF ARROWS.

(_By Homer._)

As the feathery snows
Fall frequent on some wintry day, when Jove
Hath risen to shed them on the race of man,
And show his arrowy stores; he lulls the wind
Then shakes them down continual, covering thick
Mountain tops, promontories, flowery meads,
And cultured valleys rich, and ports and shores
Along the margined deep; but there the wave
Their further progress stays; while all besides
Lies whelm'd beneath Jove's fast-descending shower;
So thick, from side to side, by Trojans hurled
Against the Greeks, and by the Greeks returned,
The stony volleys flew.

_Cowper_, _Iliad_, xii.

PRIAM BEGGING THE BODY OF HECTOR.

(_By Homer._)

"Think, O Achilles, semblance of the gods,
On thine own father, full of days like me.
And trembling on the gloomy verge of life.
Some neighbor chief, it may be, even now
Oppresses him, and there is none at hand,
No friend to succor him in his distress.
Yet, doubtless, hearing that Achilles lives,
He still rejoices, hoping day by day,
That one day he shall see the face again
Of his own son, from distant Troy returned.
But me no comfort cheers, whose bravest sons,
So late the flowers of Ilium, are all slain.
When Greece came hither, I had fifty sons;
But fiery Mars hath thinn'd them. One I had,
One, more than all my sons, the strength of Troy,
Whom, standing for his country, thou hast slain--
Hector. His body to redeem I come
Into Achaia's fleet, bringing myself,
Ransom inestimable to thy tent.
Rev'rence the gods, Achilles! recollect
Thy father; for his sake compassion show
To me, more pitiable still, who draw
Home to my li