disdain of Romeo and Hamlet, but affectionately appealing to the bright daylight, and to Nature, with all their pleasant memories of the past:—
"And then that mak'st high heaven thy chariot-course,
Sun, when gazing on my Fatherland,
Draw back thy golden rein, and tell my woes
To the old man my father, and to her
Who nursed me at her bosom—my poor mother!
There will be wailing through the echoing walls
When—but away with thoughts like these! the hour
Brings on the ripening deed. Death, death! look on me—
Did I say Death?—it was a waste of words;
We shall be friends hereafter.
'Tis the day,
Present and breathing round me, and the car
Of the sweet sun, that never shall again
Receive my greeting!—henceforth time is sunless,
And day a thing that is not! Beautiful Light,
My Salamis—my country—and the floor
Of my dear household-hearth; and thou, bright Athens,
Thou—for thy sons and I were boys together—
Fountains and rivers, and ye Trojan plains,
I loved you as my fosterers—fare ye well!
Take in these words, the last earth hears from Ajax—
All else unspoken; in a spectre-land
I'll whisper to the Dead."—(Lord Lytton.)
And we must remember, says a French critic, that this appeal was made in a theatre with the blue heaven for its canopy, and the mountains and sea for its decorations. When he saluted for the last time the sun and the sweet light of day, the real sun was actually shedding a radiance on the features of the dying hero, and the entranced faces of the audience.
