"O dura messorum ilia," exclaims Horace (Epod.
exclaims aloud: " Will _no_ one aid me?
Thus the Zulu says to the ancestral ghost, "Help me or you will feed on nettles"; whilst the still more primitive Australian exclaims to the "dead hand" that he carries about with him as a kind of divining-rod, "Guide me aright, or I throw you to the dogs."
Two generations later, Richard Crashaw caught up the universal sentiment, when, in his lines "Upon Bishop Andrewes' Picture before his Sermons," he exclaims: "This reverend shadow cast that setting sun, Whose glorious course through our horizon run, Left the dim face of this dull hemisphere, All one great eye, all drown'd in one great teare."
"The Delta," he exclaims, "shall become a plashy quicksand, a second Syrtis !