In this fable Antæus, who personifies the woodland solitude and the desert African waste, is easily overcome by his adversary, who represents the river Nile, which, divided into a thousand arms, or irrigating canals, prevents the arid sand from being borne away and then back again by the winds to desolate the fertile valley. Thus the legend is nothing more than the triumph of art and labor, and their reclaiming power over the woodland solitudes and the encroaching sands of the desert. An English poet has very happily versified the spirit of the legend, to which he has appended a fitting moral, doubtless suggested by the warning of his own approaching sad fate.[Footnote: This gifted poet, Mortimer Collins, died in 1876, at the age of forty-nine, a victim to excessive literary labor and anxiety.] Deep were the meanings of that fable. Men Looked upon earth with clearer eyesight then, Beheld in solitude the immortal Powers, And marked the traces of the swift-winged Hours. Because it never varies, all can bear The burden of the circumambient air; Because it never ceases, none can hear The music of the ever-rolling sphere-- None, save the poet, who, in moor and wood, Holds converse with the spirit of Solitude. And I remember how Antæus heard, Deep in great oak-woods, the mysterious word Which said, "Go forth across the unshaven leas To meet unconquerable Hercules." Leaving his cavern by the cedar-glen, This Titan of the primal race of men, Whom the swart lions feared, and who could tear Huge oaks asunder, to the combat bare Courage undaunted. Full of giant grace, Built up, as 'twere, from earth's own granite base. Colossal, iron-sinewed, firm he trod The lawns. How vain against a demi-god! Oh, sorrow of defeat! He plunges far Into his forests, where deep shadows are, And the wind's murmur comes not, and the gloom Of pine and cedar seems to make a tomb For fallen ambition. Prone the mortal lies Who dared mad warfare with the unpitying skies, But lo! as buried in the waving ferns, The baffled giant for oblivion yearns, Cursing his human feebleness, he feels A sudden impulse of new strength, which heals His angry wounds; his vigor he regains-- His blood is dancing gayly through his veins. Fresh power, fresh life is his who lay at rest On bounteous Hertha's kind creative breast. [Footnote: Hertha, a goddess of the ancient Germans, the same as Terra, or the Earth. Her favorite retreat was a sacred grove in an island of the ocean.] Even so, O poet, by the world subdued, Regain thy health 'mid perfect solitude. In noisy cities, far from hills and trees, The brawling demi-god, harsh Hercules, Has power to hurt thy placid spirit--power To crush thy joyous instincts every hour, To weary thee with woes for mortals stored, Red gold (coined hatred) and the tyrant's sword.