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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!
Not to a word's worth: evermore, thou tookst delight to be
Offensive in thy auguries, which thou continuest still;
Now casting thy prophetique gall, and vouching all our ill
(Shot from Apollo) is impos'd; since I refus'd the prise
Of faire Chryseis' libertie; which would in no worth rise,

To

my rate of her selfe; which moves, my vowes to have her home;
Past Clytemnestra loving her, that grac't my nuptiall roome,
With her virginitie and flowre. Nor aske her merits lesse,
For person, disposition, wit, and skill in housewiferies.
And yet, for all this, she shall go; if more conducible
That course be, than her holding here. I rather wish the weale
Of my lov❜d armie, than the death. Provide, yet instantly,
Supplie for her, that I alone, of all our royaltie,

Lose not my winnings: 'tis not fit, ye see all, I lose mine
Forc't by another: see as well, some other may resigne

His prise to me. To this, replied the swift-foote God-like sonne
Of Thetis, thus: King of us all, in all ambition;

Most covetouse of all that breathe, why should the great-soul'd Greeks
Supply thy lost prise, out of theirs? nor what thy avarice seekes,
Our common treasurie can find, so little it doth guard

Of what our raz'd towns yielded us; of all which, most is shar'd,
And given our souldiers; which againe, to take into our hands
Were ignominious and base. Now then, since God commands,
Part with thy most lov'd prise to him: not any one of us
Exacts it of thee; yet we all, all losse thou sufferst thus,
Will treble, quadruple in gaine, when Jupiter bestowes
The sacke of well-wall'd Troy on us; which by his word, he owes.
Do not deceive yourselfe with wit, (he answer'd) God-like man,
Though your good name may colour it, 'tis not your swift foote can
Out runne me here; nor shall the glosse, set on it, with the God,
Perswade me to my wrong.
Wouldst thou maintaine in sure abode
Thine owne prise, and sleight me of mine. Resolve this: if our friends
(As fits in equitie my worth) will right me with amends,
So rest it; otherwise myselfe will enter personally
On thy prise; that of Ithacus, or Ajax, for supply;
Let him, on whom I enter, rage.
Hereafter, and in other place.

But come, we'le order these,
Now put to sacred seas

Our blacke saile; in it rowers put, in it fit sacrifice`;

And to these, I will make ascend my so much envied prisé,
Bright-cheekt Chryseis. For conduct of all which, we must chuse
A chiefe out of our counsellors, thy service we must use,
Idomeneus; Ajax, thine, or thine, wise Ithacus,

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,
Ever respectfull; but of that, with all craft, covetous;

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,
By any Trojan, that my powers should bid them any blowes;

In nothing beare they blame of me. Phthia, whose bosome flowes
With corne and people, never felt empaire of her increase,
By their invasion; hils enow and farre resounding seas

Powre out their shades and deepes betweene: but thee, thou frontlesse

man,

We follow, and thy triumphs make, with bonfires of our bane:
Thine, and thy brother's vengeance sought (thou dog's eyes) of this

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
Shouldst still be ravishing my right, draw my whole treasure drie,
And adde dishonor. He replied: If thy heart serve thee, flie;
Stay not for my cause; others here will aid and honor me;

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,
Thou still art most my enemie: strifes, battels, bloodie things,

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?
Home with thy fleete and myrmidons, use there their emperie,
Command not here; I weigh thee not, nor meane to magnifie
Thy rough hewne rages; but instead, I thus farre threaten thee:
Since Phoebus needs will force from me Chryseis, she shall go;
My ships and friends shall waft her home: but I will imitate so
His pleasure, that mine owne shall take, in person, from thy tent
Bright-cheekt Briseis; and so tell thy strength how eminent
My powre is, being compar'd with thine; all other, making feare
To vaunt equalitie with me, or in this proud kind beare

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
Achilles by the yellow curles, and onely gave her looke
To him appearance; not a man of all the rest could see.
He, turning backe his eye, amaze strooke everie facultie;
Yet straight he knew her by her eyes, so terrible they were
Sparkling with ardor, and thus spake: Thou seed of Jupiter,
Why com'st thou? to behold his pride, that boasts our emperie?
Then witnesse, with it, my revenge, and see that insolence die,
That lives to wrong me. She replied, I come from heaven to see
Thy anger settled; if thy soule will use her sovereigntie
In fit reflection. I am sent from Juno, whose affects
Stand heartily inclin'd to both: come, give us both respects,
And cease contention; draw no sword, use words, and such as may
Be bitter to his pride, but just; for trust in what I say,

A time shall come, when thrice the worth of that he forceth now,
He shall propose for recompense of these wrongs; therefore throw
Reines on thy passions, and serve us. He answer'd: Though my heart
Burne in just anger, yet my soule must conquer th' angrie part,
And yield you conquest. Who subdues his earthly part for heaven,
Heaven to his prayres subdues his wish. This said, her charge was

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