But as he was putting the rotten thing away, his eye happened upon two
lines that struck into him--it was like a physical blow--the most
extraordinary sensation:

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.

He caught his breath. It was extraordinary. What the dickens was it? A
vision of exquisite and unearthly and brilliantly coloured beauty seemed
to be before his eyes. Islands, all white and green and in a sea of
terrific blue.... And music, the thin note of distant trumpets....
Amazing! He read on. "Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal
Summer gilds them yet." Terrific, but not quite so terrific. And then
again the terrific, the stunning, the heart-clutching thing. On a
different note, with a different picture, coloured in grays.

The mountains look on Marathon--
And Marathon looks on the sea.

Music! The trumpets thinned away, exquisitely thin, tiny, gone! And high
above the mountains and far upon the sea an organ shook.

He said, "Well, I'm dashed!" and put the book away.


V

It was years after the Byron episode--after he had come down from
Cambridge, after he had travelled fairly widely, and luckily, as tutor