lain for thrice a thousand years under the leaden gloom of one unbroken sabbath.
Softly and sadly the poor, dumb, patient stream went winding, and winding along through its shifting pathway; in some places its waters were parted, and then again, lower down, they would meet once more. I could see that the stream from year to year was finding itself new channels, and flowed no longer in its ancient track, but I knew that the springs which fed it were high on Ida—the springs of Simois and Scamander!
It was. coldly, and thanklessly, and with vacant unsatisfied eyes that I watched the slow coming, and the gliding away of the waters; I tell myself now, as a profane fact, that I did* indeed stand by that river (Methley gathered some seeds from the bushes that grew there), but, since that I am away from his banks, "divine Scamander" has recovered the proper mystery belonging to him, as an unseen deity; a kind of indistinctness, like that which belongs to far antiquity, has spread itself over my memory, of the winding streams that I saw with these very eyes. One's mind regains in absence that dominion over earthly things which has been shaken by their rude contact; you force yourself hardily into the material presence of a mountain, or a river, whose name belongs to poetry and ancient religion, rather than to the external world; your feelings wound up and kept ready for some sort of half-expected rapture are chilled, and borne down for the time under all this load of real earth and water; but, let these once pass out of sight, and then again the old fanciful notions are restored, and the mere realities which you have just been looking at are thrown back so far into distance, that the very event of your intrusion upon such scenes begins to look dim, and uncertain as though it belonged to mythology.
It is not over the plain before Troy that the river now flows; its waters have edged away far towards the north, since the day that "divine Scamander" (whom the gods call Xanthus) went down to do battle for Ilion, with Mars, and Phœbus, and Latona, and Diana glorying in her arrows, and Venus the lover of smiles.
And now, when I was vexed at the migration of Scamander, and the total loss or absorption of poor dear Simois, how happily
