since his childhood, Homer felt that he was not alone in the world!

Who shall venture to tell what passed between the two minstrels, when
Homer, leaving his couch, crossed the circle at once, flung himself on
the ground by David's side, gave him his hand; when they looked each
other in the face, and sank down into the rapid murmuring of talk, which
constant gesture illustrated, but did not fully explain to the rough men
around them? They respected the poets' colloquy for a while; but then,
eager again to hear one harp or the other, they persuaded one of the
Ionian sailors to ask Homer again to sing to them.

It was hard to persuade Homer. He shook his head, and turned back to the
soldier-poet.

"What should _I_ sing?" he said.

They did not enter into his notion: hearers will not always. And so,
taking his question literally, they replied, "Sing? Sing us of the
snow-storm, the storm of stones, of which you sang at noon."

Poor Homer! It was easier to do it than to be pressed to do it; and he
struck his harp again:--

"It was as when, some wintry day, to men
Jove would, in might, his sharp artillery show;
He wills his winds to sleep, and over plain
And mountains pours, in countless flakes, his snow,
Deep it conceals the rocky cliffs and hills,
Then covers all the blooming meadows o'er,
All the rich monuments of mortals' skill,