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Meantime with prosperous gales Ulysses brought | Meantime the goddess-born in secret pind;
(race, The hecatomb to please the shooter king.
Now, when twelve days complete had run their The dame before an altar's holy fire
The gods bethought them of the cares belonging Ulysses led; and thus bespoke her sire:
to their place. « Reverenc'd be thou, and be thy god adord : Jove at their head ascending from the sea, The king of men thy daughter has restor'd; A shoal of puny powers attend his way. And sent by me with presents and with prayer; Then Thetis, not unmindful of her son, He recommends him to thy pious care.
Emerging from the deep, to beg her boon, That Phaebus at thy suit his wrath may cease, Pursued their track; and waken'd from his rest, And give the penitent offenders peace."
Before the sovereign stood a morning guest. He said, and gave her to her father's hands, Him in the circle, but apart, she found: Who glad receiv'd her, free from servile bands. The rest at awful distance stood around. This done, in order they, with sober grace, She bow'd, and ere she durst her suit bagin, Their gifts around the well-built altar place. One hand embrac'd his knees, one prop'd his chin. Then wash'd, and took the cakes; while Chryses | Then thus : “ If I, celestial sire, in ought stood
Have serv'd thy will, or gratify'd thy thought, With hands upheld, and thus invok'd his god : One glimpse of glory to my issue give;
“ God of the silver bow, whose eyes survey Grac'd for the little time he has to live. The sacred Cilla, thou whose awful sway
Dishonour'd by the king of men he stands : Chrysa the bless'd, and Tenedos obey :
His rightful prize is ravish'd from his hands. Now hear, as thou before my prayer hast heard, But thou, O father, in my son's defence, Against the Grecians and their prince preferr'd: Assume thy power, assert thy providence. Once thou hast honour'd, honour once again Let Troy prevail, till Greece th’affront has paid Thy priest; nor let his second vows be vain. With doubled honours; and redeem'd his aid." But from th'afflicted host and humbled prince She ceas'd, but the considering god was mute, Avert thy wrath, and cease thy pestilence.” Till she, resolv'd to win, renew'd her suit: Apollo heard, and, conquering his disdain,
Nor loos'd her hold, but forc'd him to reply, Unbent his bow, and Greece respir'd again.
Or grant me my petition, or deny: Now when the solemn rites of prayer were rast, Jove cannot fear: then tell me to my face, Their salted cakes on crackling flames they cast. That I, of all the gods, am least in grace. Then, turning back, the sacrifice they sped : This I can bear.” The Cloud-compelier mourn'd, The fatted oxen slew, and fea'd the dead.
And, sighing first, this answer he return'd: Chopp'd off their nervous thighs, and next pre “ Know'st thou what clainours will disturb my par'd
reign, To involve the lean in cauls, and mend with lard. What my stunn'd ears from Juno must sustain? Sweet-breads and collops were with skewers prick'd In council she gives licence to her tongue, About the sides; imbibing what they deck’d. Loquacions, brawling, ever in the wrong. The priest with holy hands was seen to tine And now she will my partial power upbraid, The cloven wood, and pour the ruddy wine. If, alienate from Greece, I give the Trojans aid. The youth approach'd the fire, and as it burn'd, But thou depart, and shun her jealous sight, On five sharp broachers rank'd, the roast they The care be mine, to do Pelides right. turn'd;
Go then, and on the faith of Jove rely: These morsels stay'd their stomachs; then the rest When, nodding to thy suit, he bows the sky. They cut in legs and fillets for the feast;
This ratifies th' irrevocable doom : Which drawn and serv'd, their hunger they appease the sign ordain'd, that what I will shall come: With savory neat, and set their minds at ease. The stamp of Heaven, and seal of Fate.” He said,
Now when the rage of eating was repelid, And shook the sacred honours of his head. The boys with generous wine the goblets fill’d. With terrour trembled Heaven's subsiding hill: The first libations to the gods they pour:
And from his shaken curls ambrosial dews distil. And then with songs indulge the genial hour. The goddess goes exulting from his sight, Holy debauch! Till day to night they bring, And sceks the seas profound; and leaves the With hymns and paans to the bowyer king.
realms of light, At sun-set to their ship they make return,
He moves into his hall : the powers resort, And snore secure on decks, till rosy morn.
Each from his house to fill the sovereign's court. The skies with dawning day were purpled o'er ; Nor waiting summons, nor expecting stood; Awak’d, with labouring oars they leave the shore: But met with reverence, and receiv'd the god. The power appeas'd, with winds suffic'd the sail, He mounts the throne; and Juno took her place: The bellying canvass strutted with the gale; But sullen Discontent sate lowering on her face. The waves indignant roar with surly pride, With jealous eyes, at distance she had seen, And press against the sides, and, beaten off, divide. Whispering with Jove, the silver-footed queen; They cut the foamy way, with force impelld Then, impotent of tongue (her silence broke) Superior, till the Trojan port they held :
Thus turbulent in rattling tone she spoke: Then hauling on the strand their galley moor, “ Author of ills, and close contriver Jove, And pitch their tents along the crooked shore. Which of thy dames, what prostitute of Love,
THE LAST PARTING OF
FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE ILIAD.
Has held thy ear so long, and begg'd so hard, All day I fell: my flight at mom begun,
Receiv'd my batter'd skull, the Sinthians heald
Then thus the sire of gods, and men below, And smiling took the cup the clown had fillid. “What I have hidden, hope uot thou to know. The reconciler-bowl went round the board, Ev'n goddesses are women: and no wife
Which empty'd, the rude skinker still restor'd. Has power to regulate her husband's life:
Loud fits of laughter seiz'd the guests, to see Counsel she may; and I will give thy ear The limping god so deft at his new ministry. The knowledge first, of what is fit to hear.
The feast continued till declining light: What I transact with others, or alone,
They drank, they laugh'd, they lov’d, and then Beware to learn; nor press too near the throne.” 'twas uight.
To whom the goddess with the charming eyes, . Nor wanted tuneful harp, nor vocal quire; " What hast thou said, O tyrant of the skies! The Muses sung; Apollo touch'd the lyre. When did I search the secrets of thy reign, Drunken at last, and drowsy they depart, Though privileg'd to know, but privilegd in vain ? Each to his house; adorn'd with labour'd art But well thon do'st, to hide from common sight Of the lame architect: the thundering god Thy close intrigues, too bad to bear the light. Ev'n he withdrew to rest, and had his load. Nor doubt I, but the silver-footed dame,
His swimming head to needful sleep apply'd;
To whom the thunderer made this stern reply;
HECTOR AND AND ROMACHE.
THE ARGUMENT. Still watch'd, and importun'd, but worse for thee. Hector, returning from the field of battle, to visit Curb that impetuous tongue, before too late
Helen his sister-in-law, and his brother Paris, The gods behold, and tremble at thy fate.
who had fought unsuccessfully hand in hand Pitying, but daring not, in thy defence, To lift a hand against Omnipotente." [fear:
with Menelaus, from thence goes to his own pa
lace to see his wife Andromache, and his infant This heard, th’ imperious queen sate mute with
son Astyanax. The description of that interview Nor further durst incense the gloomy thunderer.
is the subject of this translation.
Thus having said, brave Hector went to see
He found her not at home ; for she was gone,
Attended by her maid and infant son, To Jove obsequious, yet his mother's friend. To climb th steepy tower of Ilion: " What end in Heaven will be of civil war,
From whence, with heavy heart, she might survey If gods of pleasure will for mortals jar?
The bloody business of the dreadful day. Such discord but disturbs our jovial feast;
Her mournful eyes she cast around the plain, One grain of bad, embitters all the best.
And sought the lord of her desires in vain. Mother, though wise yourself, my counsel weigh; But he, who thought his peopled palace bare, "Tis much unsafe my sire to disobey.
When she, his only comfort, was not there, Not only you provoke him to your cost,
Stood in the gate, and ask'd of every one, But mirth is marrd, and the good cheer is lost. Which way she took, and whither she was gone; Tempt not his heavy hand; for he has power If to the court, or, with his mother's train, To throw you headlong from his heavenly tower. In long procession to Minerva's fane? But one submissive word, which you let fall,
The servants answer'd, “ Neither to the court, Will make him in good humour with us all."
Where Priam's sons and daughters did resort,
With prayers the blue-ey'd progeuy of Jove;
Than all their safety, to the tower was gone, Be, as becomes a wife, obedient still;
There to survey the labours of the field, Though grievd, yet subject to her husband's will. Where the Greeks conquer, and the Trojans yield; I would not see you beaten ; yet, afraid
Swiftly she pass'd, with fear and fury wild;
The nurse went lagging after with the child.”
Th’admiring throng divide, to give him way;
His wife beheld him, and with eager pace Guard well that pass, secure of all beside.» Flew to his arms, to meet a dear embrace: To whom the noble Hector thus reply'd. His wife, who brought in dower Cilicia's crown, “ That and the rest are in my daily care; And, in herself, a greater dower alone:
But should I shun the dangers of the war, Action's heir, who on the woody plain
With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains, Of Hippoplacus did in Thebe reign.
And their proud ladies with their sweeping traink Breathless she flew, with joy and passion wild; The Grecian swords and lances I can bear: The nurse came lagging after with her child. But loss of honour is my only fear.
The royal babe upou her breast was laid ; Shall Hector, born to war, his birth-right yield, Who, like the morning star, his beams display'd. Belie bis courage, and forsake the field? Scamandrius was his name, which Hector gave, Early in rugged arms I took delight, From that fair flood which lion's wall did lave : And still have been the foremost in the fight: But him Astyanax the Trojans call,
With dangers dearly have I bought renown, From his great father, who defends the wall, And am the champion of my father's crown. Hector beheld him with a silent smile:
And yet my mind forebodes, with sure presage, His tender wife stood weeping by the while : That Troy shall perish by the Grecian rage. Press'd in her own, his warlike hand she took, The fatal day draws on, when I must fall; Then sigh’d, and thus prophetically spoke:
And universal ruin cover all. “ Thy dauntless heart (which I foresee too late) Not Troy itself, though built by hands divine, Too daring man, will urge thee to thy fate : Nor Priam, nor his people, nor his line, Nor dost thou pity, with a parent's mind,
My mother, nor my brothers of renown, This helpless orphan, whom thou leav'st behind; Whose valour yet defends th' unhappy town; Nor me, th' unhappy partner of thy bed ;
Not these, nor all their fates which I foresee, Who must in triumph by the Greeks be led : Are half of that concern I have for thee. They seek thy life, and, in unequal fight
I see, I see thee, in that fatal hour, With many, will oppress thy single might : Subjected to the victor's cruel power; Better it were for miserable me
Led hence a slave to some insulting sword,
Forlorn, and trembling at a foreign lord;
Gracing with Trojan fights a Grecian room; “ Eternal sorrow and perpetual tears
Or from deep wells the living stream to take, Began my youth, and will conclude my years: And on thy weary shoulders bring it back. I have no parents, friends, nor brothers left; While, groaning under this laborious life, By stern Achilles all of life bereit.
They insolently call thee Hector's wife; Then when the walls of Thebes he overthrew, Upbraid thy bondage with thy husband's name; His fatal hand my royal father slew;
And from my glory propagate thy shame. He stew Action, but despoil'd him not;
This when they say, thy sorrows will increase Nor in his hate the funeral rites forgot;
With anxious thoughts of former happiness; Arm'd as he was he sent him whole below,
That he is dead who could thy wrongs redress. And reverene'd thus the manes of his foe: But I, oppress'd with iron sleep before, A tomb he rais'd; the mountain nymphs around Shall hear thy unavailing cries no more.” Enelos'd with planted elms the holy ground.
He said " My seven brave brothers in one fatal day Then, holding forth his arms, he took his boy, To Death's dark mansions took the mournful way; The pledge of love and other hope of Troy. Slam by the same Achilles, while they keep The fearful infant turn'd his head away, The bellowing oxen and the bleating eeep. And on his nurse's neck reclining lay, My mother, who the royal sceptre sway'd,
His unknown father shunning with affright, Was captive to the cruel victor made,
And looking back on so uncouth a sight; And hither led; but, hence redeem'd with gold, Daunted to see a face with steel o'er-spread, Her native country did again behold,
And his high plume that nodded o'er his head. And but be held: for soon Diana's dart
His sire and mother smil'd with silent joy; In an unhappy chase transtix'd her heart.
And Hector hasten'd to relieve his boy ; * But thou, my Hertor, art thyself alone Dismiss'd his burnish'd helin, that shone afar, My parents, brothers, and my lord in one : The pride of warriors, and the pomp of war: Olill not all my kindred o'er again,
Th’ illustrious babe, thus reconcil'd, he took: Nor tempt the daugers of the dusty plain; Hugy'd in his arms, and kiss'd, and thus he spoke: But in this tower, for vur dettuce, reinain. ** Parent of gods and men, propitious Jove, Thy wite and son are in thy ruin lost:
And you bright synod of the powers above; This is a husband's and a father's post.
On this my son your gracious gifts bestow; The Sean gate commands the plains below; Grant him to live, and great in arms to grow, Here marshal all thy soldiers as they ;
To reign in Troy, to govern with renown, Aud heuer irith ocher hands repel the fire To shick the people, and assert the crown: By you will tig-tree lies their chief'ascent, That, when hereafter he from war shall come, And thither all their powers are daily beut: And bring his Tro ans peace and triumph home, The two faces have i orten seen,
Some aged man, who lives this act to see, Arnt the wronged husbani ot the Spartan queen : And who in tormer times rememberd me, With him bis greater brother; and with these Nay say, the sun in fortitude and fame Fiere Diedle and bodd eraiks:
Outroes the mark, and droves his father's name: Pretain it by auxury or caure',
Thar at these words his mother may rejoice, But by this easy rise they all advance;
dud sud ber sufrage to the pablic voice.”
Thus having said,
veturn, and, to divert thy thoughts at home, He first with suppliant hands the gods ador'd: There task thy maids, and exercise the loom, Then to the mother's arms the child restor'd: Employ'd in works that womankind become, With tears and smiles she took her son, and press'd The toils of war and feats of chivalry Th’illustrious infant to her fragrant breast, Belong to men, and most of all to me.” He, wiping her fair eyes, indulg'd her grief,
At this, for new replies he did not stay, And eas'd her sorrows with this last relief. But lac'd his crested helm, and strode away.
“My wife and mistress, drive thy fears away, His lovely consort to her house return'd, Nor give so bad an omen to the day;
And looking often back in silence mourn'd: Think not it lies in any Grecian's power,
Home when she came, ber secret woe she vents, To take my life before the fatal hour.
And fills the palace with her loud laments; When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fiy
Those loud laments her echoing maids restore, Th'irrevocable doom of Destiny.
And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.
TIIEOCRITUS, LUCRETIUS, AND HORACE.
CONCERNING MR. DRYDEN'S TRANSLATIONS.
For this last half-year I have been troubled with the disease (as I may call it) of translation: the cold prose fits of it, which are always the most tedious with me, were spent in the history of the League ; the hot, which succeeded them, in verse miscellanies. The truth is, I fancied to myself a kind of ease in the change of the paroxysm; never suspecting but the humour would have wasted itself in two or three pastorals of Theocritus, and as many odes of Horace. But finding, or at least thinking I found, something that was more pleasing in them than my ordinary productions, I encouraged myself to renew my old acquaintance with Lucretius and Virgil; and immediately fixed upon some parts of them, which had most affected me in the reading. These were my natural impulses for the undertaking. But there was an accidental motive which was full as forcible. It was my lord Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse; which made me uneasy till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair precept in poetry is, like a seeming demonstration in the mathematics, very specious in the diagram, but failing in the mechanic operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions; I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which, in other words, is to confess po less a vanity, than to pretend that I have at least in some places made examples to his miles. Yet, withal, I must acknowledge, that I hare many times exceeded my commission : for I have both added and omitted, and even sometimes very boldly made such expositions of my authors, as no Dutch commentator will forgive me. Perhaps, in such particular passages, I have thought that I discovered some beauty yet undiscovered by those pedants, which none but a poet could have found. Where I have taken away some of their expressions, and cut them shorter, it may possibly be on this consideration, that what was beautiful in the Greek or Latin, would not appear so shining in the English. And where I have enlarged them, I desire the false erities would not always think, that those thoughts are wholly inine, but that either they are secretly in the poet, or may be fairly deduced from him; or at least, if both those considerations should fail, that my own is of a piece with his, and that if he were hving, and an Englishman, they are such as he would probably have written.
For, atter all, a translator is to make his author appear as charming as possibly he can, provided be maintains his character, and makes him not unlike bimself. Translation is a kind of drawing after the life : where every one will acknowledge there is a double sort of likeness, a good one and a bad. It is one thing to draw the out-lines true, the features like, the proportions exact, the colouring itself perhaps tolerable; and another thing to make all these graceful, by the posture, the shadowings, and chiefly by the spirit which animates the whole. I cannot, without some indignation, look on an ill copy of an excellent original. Much less can I beboid with patience Virgil, Homer, and some others, whose beauties I have been endeavouring all my life to imitate, so abused, as I may say, to their faces, by a butching interpreter. What English readers, unacquainted with Grees or Latin, will believe me,