is typical of the man. Often in thinking over the best pieces of Pindar-the majestic organ-playing, the grave strong magic of language, the lightning-flashes of half-revealed mystery-one wonders why this man is not counted the greatest poet that ever lived, why he has not done more, mattered more. The answer perhaps is that he was a poet and nothing else. He thought in music; he loved to live among great and beautiful images-Heracles, Achilles, Perseus, Iason, the daughters of Cadmus. When any part of his beloved saga repelled his moral sensitiveness, he glided away from it, careful not to express scepticism, careful also not to speak evil of a god. He loved poetry and music, especially his own. As a matter of fact, there was no poetry in the world like his, and when other people sang they jarred on him, he confesses, like crows.'
He loved religion, and is on the emotional side a great religious poet. The opening of Nemean vi. is characteristic; so is the end of his last dated work (Pyth. viii.): "Things of a day! what are we and what not? A dream about a shadow is man; yet when some god-given splendour falls, a glory of light comes over and his life is sweet. Oh, Blessed Mother Aegina, guard thou this city in the ways of freedom, with Zeus and Prince Aeacus and Peleus and good Telamon and Achilles!"-a rich depth of emotion, and then a childlike litany of traditional saints. His religious speculations are sometimes far from fortunate, as in Olympian i.; sometimes they lead to slight improvements. For instance, the old myth said that the nymph Coronis, loved by Phoebus, was secretly false to him; but a raven saw her, and told the god. Pindar corrects this: "the god's all-seeing mind" did not need the help of the raven. It is quite
