Homer smiled; for it was Homer whom he spoke to,—­Homer still in the freshness of his unblinded youth.  He took the harp which the young Philistine handed to him, thrummed upon its chords, and as he tuned them said:  “I have no harp of olive-wood; we cut this out, it was years ago, from an old oleander in the marshes behind Colophon.  What will you hear, gentlemen?”

“The poet chooses for himself,” said the courtly old captain.

“Let me sing you, then, of the Olive Harp”; and he struck the chords in a gentle, quieting harmony, which attuned itself to his own spirit, pleased as he was to find music and harmony and the olive of peace in the midst of the rough bivouac, where he had come up to look for war.  But he was destined to be disappointed.  Just as his prelude closed, one of the young soldiers turned upon his elbow, and whispered contemptuously to his neighbor:  “Always olives, always peace:  that’s all your music’s good for!”

The boy spoke too loud, and Homer caught the discontented tone and words with an ear quicker than the speaker had given him credit for.  He ended the prelude with a sudden crash on the strings, and said shortly, “And what is better to sing of than the olive?”

The more courteous Philistines looked sternly on the young soldier; but he had gone too far to be frightened, and he flashed back:  “War is better.  My broadsword is better.  If I could sing, I would sing to your Ares; we call him Mars!”

Homer smiled gravely.  “Let it be so,” said he; and, in a lower tone, to the captain, who was troubled at the breach of courtesy, he added, “Let the boy see what war and Mars are for.”

He struck another prelude and began.  Then was it that Homer composed his “Hymn to Mars.”  In wild measure, and impetuous, he swept along through the list of Mars’s titles and attributes; then his key changed, and his hearers listened more intently, more solemnly, as in a graver strain, with slower music, and an almost awed dignity of voice, the bard went on.—­

“Helper of mortals, hear! 
As thy fires give
The present boldnesses that strive
In youth for honor;
So would I likewise wish to have the power
To keep off from my head thy bitter hour,
And quench the false fire of my soul’s low kind,
By the fit ruling of my highest mind I
Control that sting of wealth
That stirs me on still to the horrid scath
Of hideous battle!

“Do thou, O ever blessed! give me still
Presence of mind to put in act my will,
Whate’er the occasion be;
And so to live, unforced by any fear,
Beneath those laws of peace, that never are
Affected with pollutions popular
Of unjust injury,
As to bear safe the burden of hard fates,
Of foes inflexive, and inhuman hates!”

The tones died away; the company was hushed for a moment; and the old chief then said gravely to his petulant follower, “That is what men fight for, boy.”  But the boy did not need the counsel.  Homer’s manner, his voice, the music itself, the spirit of the song, as much as the words, had overcome him; and the boasting soldier was covering his tears with his hands.