The entire thing seemed to have been "written in a minor
key," of infinite world-embracing pathos. The listener was plunged into
depths of feeling that seemed unfathomable, eternal--and unendurable.
"Heavens!" whispered Jack to me in an awed voice, dropping the box from
his ear, "I can't _stand_ it!"
I saw tears running down his face, and felt them on my own. Edmund and
Henry were equally affected, and could not continue to listen. Edmund
said nothing, but I recalled his words about the traditional belief of
this people that their world had entered upon the last stage of its
existence. Then I watched the countenances about us; they wore an
expression of solemnity, and yet there was something which spoke of an
uplifting pride, awakened by the great paean, and swelling the heart with
memories of interminable ages of past glory.
"Come," said Edmund at last, turning away, "this is not for us. The
measureless sadness we feel, but the triumphant reflection of ancestral
greatness is for them alone. Heavens! what an artist he must have been
who composed this!--if it be not like the Iliad, the work of an age
rather than of a man.
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