I see the ocean, And o'er its face ships passing wide and far; Some with expanded sails before the breeze, And some with neither sails nor oars, impelled By some invisible power against the wind, Scattering the spray before them, But of many One is on fire, and one has struck on rocks And melted in the waves like fallen snow. Two crash together in the middle sea, And go to pieces on the instant, leaving No soul to tell the tale, and one is hurled In fragments to the sky, strewing the deep With death and wreck. I had rather live with Circe Even as I was, than flit about the world In those enchanted ships which some Alastor Must have devised as traps for mortal ruin. Look yet again. Now the whole scene is changed. I see long chains of strange machines on wheels, With one in front of each, purring white smoke From a black hollow column. Fast and far They speed, like yellow leaves before the gale, When autumn winds are strongest. Through their windows I judge them thronged with people; but distinctly Their speed forbids my seeing. SPIRIT-RAPPER This is one Of the great glories of our modern time, * Men are become as birds,' and skim like swallows The surface of the world. GRYLLUS For what good end? SPIRIT-RAPPER The end is in itself--the end of skimming The surface of the world. GRYLLUS If that be all, I had rather sit in peace in my old home: But while I look, two of them meet and clash, And pile their way with ruin. One is rolled Down a steep bank; one through a broken bridge Is dashed into a flood. Dead, dying, wounded, Are there as in a battle-field. Are these Your modern triumphs? Jove preserve me from them. SPIRIT-RAPPER These ills are rare. Millions are borne in safety Where ore incurs mischance. Look yet again. GRYLLUS I see a mass of light brighter than that Which burned in Circe's palace, and beneath it A motley crew, dancing to joyous music. But from that light explosion comes, and flame; And forth the dancers rush in haste and fear From their wide-blazing hall. SPIRIT-RAPPER Oh, Circe! Circe! Thou show'st him all the evil of our arts In more than just proportion to the good. Good without evil is not given to man. Jove, from his urns dispensing good and ill, Gives all unmixed to some, and good and ill Mingled to many--good unmixed to none.{1} Our arts are good. The inevitable ill That mixes with them, as with all things human, Is as a drop of water in a goblet Full of old wine. 1 This is the true sense of the Homeric passage:-- (Greek passage) Homer: ii. xxiv.