PINDAR’S STYLE is original, chaste, full of splendor and majestic energy. The Theban eagle, as he has often been called, soaring to the sun, seems to disdain the commonplace in his solitary flight. His style, however, is not faultless. The over-boldness of his metaphors confuses; his massing of magnificent images and high-sounding epithets wearies; his Doric condensation obscures his meaning; his metre is too complicated for the uneducated ear, and his transitions are so abrupt that the reader has difficulty in finding the connection. His subjects were hard to treat; but Pindar found material and lent variety to his odes by skilfully interweaving legendary lore, history, and fragments of mythology. This was by Corinna’s advice; but her young pupil carried it to such excess in his first attempt that his fair teacher warned him, “One should sow with the hand, not with the whole sack.” Pindar’s tone is everywhere moral. He merits indeed the title of “Sacerdotal Poet;” for he upheld the religion of Greece in its purity, rejecting all sensual notions of “the blessed ones,” and asserting his faith in their holiness and justice. He taught the immortality of the soul; “things of a day” are men, but after death there is in store “a gladsome life.” His belief in an existence beyond the grave is indicated in the following lines from one of his dirges. And here be it observed that no translation can do justice to Pindar; the Doric diamonds cease to flash when removed from their Doric setting. “Shines for them the sun’s warm glow, When ’tis darkness here below; And the ground before their towers, Meadow-land with purple flowers, Teems with incense-bearing treen, Teems with fruit of golden sheen. Some in steed and wrestling feat, Some in dice take pleasure sweet, Some in harping: at their side Blooms the spring in all her pride. Fragrance all about is blown O’er that country of desire, Ever as rich gifts are thrown Freely on the far-seen fire, Blazing from the altar-stone. But the souls of the profane Far from heaven removed below, Flit on earth in murderous pain, ’Neath the unyielding yoke of woe; While pious spirits tenanting the sky Chant praises to the mighty one on high.” CONINGTON.