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There is an artistic rhythm in the writings of the classical authors, like those of Cicero and Herodotus and Thucydides, as marked as in the beautiful measure of Homer and Virgil. Burke and Macaulay are as great artists in style as Tennyson himself. Plato did not write poetry, but his prose is as "musical as Apollo's lyre."
At the end of the same year he sounded his third and deepest note in his poem On the Death of General Foy one of France's truest patriots. Now his lyre was complete; it had its three strings of sadness, joy, and sorrow. These three poems Me cal Mouri, the Charivari, and the ode On the Death of General Foy, with some other verses were published in 1825. What was to be the title of the volume?
These formulae may be applied as a curious test to ascertain what strange sympathies there may be between such lines and the vast organic harmonies of Nature and the Universe; but they do not enter into the soul of their creation any more than the limitations of counterpoint and rhythm laid their incubus on the lyre of Apollo.
This was farther enriched by a piquancy gained from the smoke of the burning hickory and oak, with which they were cured, and the absorption of odors from the scented herbs in the rooms where they were drying. Many have sung the praises of Kentucky's horses, whisy and women, but no poet has tuned his lyre to the more fruitful theme of Kentucky's mast-fed, smoke-cured, herb-scented hams.
"I wish they could come back." "So do I," smiled Hortense. Then, as if to check more: "I suppose, Ramsay, you would want to drown us all Ben and Jack and Rebecca and me." "And I suppose you would want to stand us all on our heads," I retorted. Then we both laughed, and Hortense demanded if I had as much skill with the lyre as with the sword.
Men say that he by the music of his songs charmed the stubborn rocks upon the mountains and the course of rivers. And the wild oak-trees to this day, tokens of that magic strain, that grow at Zone on the Thracian shore, stand in ordered ranks close together, the same which under the charm of his lyre he led down from Pieria.
Fate, Passion, Mystery, the Victim, the Avenger, the Hate that harms, the Furies that tear, the Love that bleeds, are not these with us Still? are not these still the weapons of the Artist? the colors of his palette? the chords of his lyre? Listen! I tell thee a tale not of Kings but of Men not of Thrones, but of Love, and Grief, and Crime. Listen, and but once more. 'Twas noonday in Chepe.
Homer had no philosophy; he never struggles to impress upon us his views about this or that; you can scarcely tell indeed whether his sympathies are Greek or Trojan; but he represents to us faithfully the men and women among whom he lived. He sang the Tale of Troy, he touched his lyre, he drained the golden beaker in the halls of men like those on whom he was conferring immortality.
These are carts curiously shaped and often carved, with large and very wide-rimmed wheels. They are drawn by a pair of Indian bullocks, sleek cream-coloured beasts with mild and patient eyes, and often bearing enormous horns, which, somewhat after the shape of a lyre, stand four feet above their heads.
Delicate pianissimo effects, somewhat resembling those of the Eolian lyre, are produced by playing the notes with the air-blast alone, without the aid of percussion.
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