cultivated. The liberty, which Chapman was in the habit of taking with his original, both in contracting and expanding the text as suited his vein of feeling at the moment, was entirely in contradiction to the critical canons of the age. Chapman did not perform his task, as Pope was in the habit of doing, by small portions at a time, which were, each in order, burnished up to the highest polish by unremitting care and labour.-But, drinking in deep draughts of his author at a time, he became over-informed with his subject; and then breathed his spirit forth again, with the enthusiasm of an original creator. In short, had he not been also shackled by certain circumscribed rules of translation, he would have produced such a poem, as we have in the beginning of this article ventured to assert, is the only true copy of a classical author, and thus proved himself, to use his own language, a most desertful mover in the frame of our Homer. It is said by Denham, "Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but those who cannot write, translate." Very different, however, has been the fate of Homer in this country. His three chief translators, Chapman, Pope, and Cowper, indeed the only three worth naming, were each of them three great original poets. Though, perhaps, the two latter mistook the nature of their powers in the attempt, yet the versions of all three are works of genius, of which our literature may be proud. The translation of Pope, from its smooth numbers and from the beauty of particular parts, has, probably, enjoyed a higher reputation than it really deserves. Its grand and irredeemable error is, that it refines away the hearty spirit of Homer: that, by what the translator conceived to be elevating the low and polishing the rude, he has deprived the ancient poet of those vigorous strokes of individuality and characteristic truth which always distinguish works of original genius. However highly this version has been applauded, we are convinced that it has done more to lower the fame of Homer in this country, than fifty such contemptible and worthless translations as those of Hobbes and Ogilby could ever have had the power to do. For through the faults just mentioned, and through the monotony of the metre and the immense portion of expletive matter which he has introduced, in order to preserve the balance of his lines, he has rendered these nervous and energetic productions, cold, tedious, weak, and diffusive. No one can estimate more highly the poetical powers of Pope, than we are disposed to do, when they were exerted on subjects for which he was by nature admirably adapted, the manners of the world, and the vices and follies of mankind. And we consequently cannot but lament, that he as well as Cowper were led away by some strange delusion from their proper walk, to a task for which, to say the least, they were unfitted. The translation of Cowper would have had infinitely more merit had he written it in prose, instead of the peculiar kind of blank verse, which he has selected for his purpose. It is true, that then, a bare prose version would have appeared to little advantage, by the side of the flowing and harmonious versification of the Greek, but the reader would have been able to have caught the admirable sense which the translator has given, and have proceeded with ease, if not with great satisfaction, to the end of his task. As it is, no mountainous journey can be more jolting, uneven, and uncertain, than the course of the reader through the translation of Cowper. Broken sentences, unexpected pauses, and abrupt terminations, constantly impede our progress, and the reading of the whole becomes an achievement, if not dangerous, certainly arduous*. Difficult to read as the version of the amiable Cowper undoubtedly is, it is full of high merit, and had he been more fortunate in the choice of his metre, and less scrupulous in translating literally, his version would have been worthy his original talent. It is a remarkable peculiarity in this translation, that we cannot approve it on the whole, yet we must admire it as eminently beautiful in detail: for every single expression, epithet, and phrase in Homer, finds in Cowper the exactest and most poetical translation.-His vocabulary is copious, harmonious, and picturesque; and he has, through the whole poems, most happily applied the compound words, in which our language is almost as rich as that of Homer himself. Such being the case, it is to be lamented, that in paying too great attention to words and phrases, he has suffered the volatile spirit of the original to evaporate, and so entirely disjointed its flowing harmony. It is, however, time to return to Chapman, the staple of our article, and shew, that he is worthy of the encomiums which he has received, by specimens of his own native power, and by a comparison of his translation with that of Pope and Cowper in their most fortunate parts. The first extract we shall give of Chapman is the fierce debate between Achilles and Agamemnon, in the first book of the Iliad, which ends in the former withdrawing himself and * If the reader should accuse us of injustice, we need only instance, as a confirmation of our remarks, a celebrated part of the Iliad, in Cowper's translation. We allude to the petition of Priam to Achilles, begging the dead body of his son Hector. his Myrmidons from the army before Troy. It is a good specimen of the "daring fiery spirit" which Pope attributes to this old version, and on the second reading will, we think, be found animated with the life of an original. 66 Agamemnon addresses Calchas: Prophet of ill! For never good came from thee towards me! To my rate of her selfe; which moves, my vowes to have her home; Lose not my winnings: 'tis not fit, ye see all, I lose mine His prise to me. To this, replied the swift-foote God-like sonne Most covetouse of all that breathe, why should the great-soul'd Greeks Of what our raz'd towns yielded us; of all which, most is shar'd, But come, we'le order these, Our blacke saile; in it rowers put, in it fit sacrifice`; And to these, I will make ascend my so much envied prisé, Or thine, thou terriblest of men, thou sonne of Peleus, Which fittest were, that thou mightst see these holy acts perform❜d, For which thy cunning zeale so pleades; and he whose bow thus storm'd For our offences, may be calm'd. Achilles, with a frowne, Thus answer'd; O thou impudent! of no good but thine owne, With what heart can a man attempt a service dangerous, Or at thy voice be spirited to flie upon a foe, Thy mind thus wretched? For myselfe, I was not injur❜d so, In nothing beare they blame of me. Phthia, whose bosome flowes Powre out their shades and deepes betweene: but thee, thou frontlesse man, We follow, and thy triumphs make, with bonfires of our bane: Troy By our expos'd lives, whose deserts thou neither dost employ With honour nor with care. And now, thou threatst to force from me The fruite of my sweate, which the Greekes gave all; and though it be (Compar'd with thy part, then snatcht up) nothing; nor ever is At any sackt towne; but of fight (the fetcher in of this) My hands have most share; in whose toyles, when I have emptied me Of all my forces; my amends, in liberalitie (Though it be little) I accept, and turne pleas'd to my tent; And yet that little, thou esteemst, too great a continent In thy incontinent avarice. For Phthia therefore now My course is, since 'tis better farre, than here endure, that thou If not, yet Jove I know is sure; that counsellor is he That I depend on; as for thee, of all our Jove-kept kings, Make thy blood feasts still. But if strength, that these moods build upon, Flow in thy nerves, God gave thee it, and so 'tis not thine owne, But in his hands still; what then lifts thy pride in this so hie? Their beards against me. Thetis' sonne, at this stood vext; his heart Bristled his bosome, and two waies drew his discursive part; If from his thigh his sharpe sword drawne, he should make roome about Atrides' person, slaught'ring him; or fit his anger out And curb his spirit. While these thoughts striv'd in his bloud and mind, And he his sword drew; downe from heaven, Athenia* stoopt, and shin'd About his temples, being sent by th' ivorie-wristed queene, Saturnia, who, out of her heart, had ever loving bene, And carefull for the good of both. She stood behind, and tooke A time shall come, when thrice the worth of that he forceth now, |