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up artillery—to govern with lighted matches, and to cut, and push, and prime,—I call this, not vigour, but the sloth of cruelty and ignorance. The vigour I love consists in finding out wherein subjects are aggrieved, in relieving them; in the laborious, watchful, and difficult task of increasing public happiness by allaying each particular discontent."

And then, at last, the poet ventures to introduce the name of Damophilus. He dilates upon his worth and his misfortunes—struggling, like Atlas, under the burden of a world of woes. Yet even the old foes of Zeus, the Titans, were at last forgiven by the god who had overthrown them. May not Damophilus hope for a like grace from Arcesilas?—

Yet he prays, when to the dregs is drained his cup of ill,

Home to return once more, and oft by Apollo's rill

Give all his soul to joy;—there, 'mid the throng

Poetic of his townsmen, bear the carven lyre, their quiet share,

And never more or do or suffer wrong!"

And—adds the poet in conclusion—should this blissful vision ever be realised, the gratitude of Damophilus will for ever keep alive the memory of the victory of Arcesilas, and of the noble 'stream of Theban song which commemorated that victory, and restored the exile to his home.

One would fain hope that this splendid poem secured its generous object. But on this point history is silent. We only know that the warnings of the