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Meantime with prosperous gales Ulysses brought
The slave, and ship with sacrifices fraught,

To Chrysa's port: where entering with the tide
He dropp'd his anchors, and his oars he ply'd.
Furl'd every sail, and drawing down the mast,
His vessel moor'd; and made with haulsers fast.
Descending on the plain, ashore they bring
The hecatomb to please the shooter king.
The dame before an altar's holy fire
Ulysses led; and thus bespoke her sire:

"Reverenc'd be thou, and be thy god ador'd:
The king of men thy daughter has restor'd;
And sent by me with presents and with prayer;
He recommends him to thy pious care.
That Phoebus at thy suit his wrath may cease,
And give the penitent offenders peace."

He said, and gave her to her father's hands,
Who glad receiv'd her, free from servile bands.
This done, in order they, with sober grace,
Their gifts around the well-built altar place.
Then wash'd, and took the cakes; while Chryses
stood

With hands upheld, and thus invok'd his god :
"God of the silver bow, whose eyes survey
The sacred Cilla, thou whose awful sway
Chrysa the bless'd, and Tenedos obey:

Now hear, as thou before my prayer hast heard,
Against the Grecians and their prince preferr'd:
Once thou hast honour'd, honour once again
Thy priest; nor let his second vows be vain.
But from th' afflicted host and humbled prince
Avert thy wrath, and cease thy pestilence."
Apollo heard, and, conquering his disdain,
Unbent his bow, and Greece respir'd again.

Now when the solemn rites of prayer were past,
Their salted cakes on crackling flames they cast.
Then, turning back, the sacrifice they sped:
The fatted oxen slew, and flea'd the dead.
Chopp'd off their nervous thighs, and next pre-
par'd

T' involve the lean in cauls, and mend with lard.
Sweet-breads and collops were with skewers prick'd
About the sides; imbibing what they deck'd.
The priest with holy hands was seen to tine
The cloven wood, and pour the ruddy wine.
The youth approach'd the fire, and as it burn'd,
On five sharp broachers rank'd, the roast they
turn'd;

These morsels stay'd their stomachs; then the rest
They cut in legs and fillets for the feast;
Which drawn and serv'd, their hunger they appease
With savory meat, and set their minds at ease.

Now when the rage of eating was repell'd,
The boys with generous wine the goblets fill'd.
The first libations to the gods they pour:
And then with songs indulge the genial hour.
Holy debauch! Till day to night they bring,
With hymns and pæans to the bowyer king.
At sun-set to their ship they make return,
And snore secure on decks, till rosy morn.
The skies with dawning day were purpled o'er;
Awak'd, with labouring oars they leave the shore:
The power appeas'd, with winds suffic'd the sail,
The bellying canvass strutted with the gale;
The waves indignant roar with surly pride,
And press against the sides, and, beaten off, divide.
They cut the foamy way, with force impell'd
Superior, till the Trojan port they held:
Then hauling on the strand their galley moor,
And pitch their tents along the crooked shore.

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| Meantime the goddess-born in secret pin'd;
Nor visited the camp, nor in the council join'd,
But, keeping close, his gnawing heart he fed
With hopes of vengeance on the tyrant's head:
And wish'd for bloody wars and mortal wounds,
And of the Greeks oppress'd in fight to hear the
dying sounds.
[race,
Now, when twelve days complete had run their
The gods bethought them of the cares belonging
to their place.

Jove at their head ascending from the sea,
A shoal of puny powers attend his way.
Then Thetis, not unmindful of her son,
Emerging from the deep, to beg her boon,
Pursued their track; and waken'd from his rest,
Before the sovereign stood a morning guest.
Him in the circle, but apart, she found:
The rest at awful distance stood around.
She bow'd, and ere she durst her suit begin,
One hand embrac'd his knees, one prop'd his chin.
Then thus: "If I, celestial sire, in ought
Have serv'd thy will, or gratify'd thy thought,
One glimpse of glory to my issue give;
Grac'd for the little time he has to live.
Dishonour'd by the king of men he stands :
His rightful prize is ravish'd from his hands.
But thou, O father, in my son's defence,
Assume thy power, assert thy providence.
Let Troy prevail, till Greece th' affront has paid
With doubled honours; and redeem'd his aid.”

She ceas'd, but the considering god was mute,
Till she, resolv'd to win, renew'd her suit:
Nor loos'd her hold, but fore'd him to reply,
"Or grant me my petition, or deny :
Jove cannot fear: then tell me to my face,
That I, of all the gods, am least in grace.
This I can bear." The Cloud-compeller mourn'd,
And, sighing first, this answer he return'd:

"Know'st thou what clamours will disturb my

reign,

What my stunn'd ears from Juno must sustain?
In council she gives licence to her tongue,
Loquacious, brawling, ever in the wrong.
And now she will my partial power upbraid,
If, alienate from Greece, I give the Trojans aid.
But thou depart, and shun her jealous sight,
The care be mine, to do Pelides right.
Go then, and on the faith of Jove rely:
When, nodding to thy suit, he bows the sky.
This ratifies th' irrevocable doom:

The sign ordain'd, that what I will shall come:
The stamp of Heaven, and seal of Fate." He said,
And shook the sacred honours of his head.
With terrour trembled Heaven's subsiding hill:
And from his shaken curls ambrosial dews distil.
The goddess goes exulting from his sight,
And seeks the seas profound; and leaves the
'realms of light.

He moves into his hall: the powers resort,
Each from his house to fill the sovereign's court.
Nor waiting summons, nor expecting stood;
But met with reverence, and receiv'd the god.
He mounts the throne; and Juno took her place:
But sullen Discontent sate lowering on her face.
With jealous eyes, at distance she had seen,
Whispering with Jove, the silver-footed queen;
Then, impotent of tongue (her silence broke)
Thus turbulent in rattling tone she spoke:

"Author of ills, and close contriver Jove, Which of thy dames, what prostitute of Love,

Has held thy ear so long, and begg'd so hard,
For some old service done, some new reward?
Apart you talk'd, for that's your special care,
The consort never must the council share.

One gracious word is for a wife too much; [such."
Such is a marriage-vow, and Jove's own faith is.
Then thus the sire of gods, and men below,
"What I have hidden, hope not thou to know.
Ev'n goddesses are women: and no wife
Has power to regulate her husband's life :
Counsel she may; and I will give thy ear
The knowledge first, of what is fit to hear.
What I transact with others, or alone,
Beware to learn; nor press too near the throne."
To whom the goddess with the charming eyes,
"What hast thou said, O tyrant of the skies!
When did I search the secrets of thy reign,
Though privileg'd to know, but privileg'd in vain?
But well thon do'st, to hide from common sight
Thy close intrigues, too bad to bear the light.
Nor doubt 1, but the silver-footed dame,
Tripping from sea, on such an errand came,
To grace her issue, at the Grecians' cost,
And for one peevish man destroy an host."

To whom the thunderer made this stern reply;
"My household curse, my lawful plague, the spy
Of Jove's designs, his other squinting eye!
Why this vain prying, and for what avail?
Jove will be master still, and Juno fail.
Should thy suspicious thoughts divine aright,
Thou but becom'st more odious to my sight,
For this attempt: uneasy life to me,

Still watch'd, and importun'd, but worse for thee.
Curb that impetuous tongue, before too late
The gods behold, and tremble at thy fate.
Pitying, but daring not, in thy defence,
To lift a hand against Omnipotente."

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This heard, th' imperious queen sate mute with
Nor further durst incense the gloomy thunderer.
Silence was in the court at this rebuke:
Nor could the gods, abash'd, sustain their sove-
reign's look.

The limping smith observ'd the sadden'd feast,
And hopping here and there, (himself a jest)
Put in his word, that neither might offend;
To Jove obsequious, yet his mother's friend.
What end in Heaven will be of civil war,
If gods of pleasure will for mortals jar?
Such discord but disturbs our jovial feast;
One grain of bad, embitters all the best.
Mother, though wise yourself, my counsel weigh;
'Tis much unsafe my sire to disobey.
Not only you provoke him to your cost,
But mirth is marr'd, and the good cheer is lost.
Tempt not his heavy hand; for he has power
To throw you headlong from his heavenly tower.
But one submissive word, which you let fall,
Will make him in good humour with us all."

He said no more; but crown'd a bowl, unbid :
The laughing nectar overlook'd the lid :
Then put it to her hand; and thus pursu'd:
"This cursed quarrel be no more renew'd.
Be, as becomes a wife, obedient still;
Though griev'd, yet subject to her husband's will.
I would not see you beaten; yet, afraid
Of Jove's superior force, I dare not aid.
Too well I know him, since that hapless hour
When I and all the gods employ'd our power
To break your bonds: me by the heel he drew,
And o'er Heaven's battlements with fury threw.

VOL. IX.

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At Vulcan's homely mirth his mother smil'd,
And smiling took the cup the clown had fill'd.
The reconciler-bowl went round the board,
Which empty'd, the rude skinker still restor'd.
Loud fits of laughter seiz'd the guests, to see
The limping god so deft at his new ministry.
The feast continued till declining light:
They drank, they laugh'd, they lov'd, and then
'twas night.

Nor wanted tuneful harp, nor vocal quire;
The Muses sung; Apollo touch'd the lyre.
Drunken at last, and drowsy they depart,
Each to his house; adorn'd with labour'd art
Of the lame architect: the thundering god
Ev'n he withdrew to rest, and had his load.
His swimming head to needful sleep apply'd ;
And Juno lay unheeded by his side.

THE LAST PARTING OF

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.
FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE ILIAD.

THE ARGUMENT.

Hector, returning from the field of battle, to visit Helen his sister-in-law, and his brother Paris, who had fought unsuccessfully hand in hand with Menelaus, from thence goes to his own palace to see his wife Andromache, and his infant son Astyanax. The description of that interview is the subject of this translation.

THUS having said, brave Hector went to see
His virtuous wife, the fair Andromache.
He found her not at home; for she was gone,
Attended by her maid and infant son,
To climb the steepy tower of Ilion:
From whence, with heavy heart, she might survey
The bloody business of the dreadful day.
Her mournful eyes she cast around the plain,
And sought the lord of her desires in vain.

But he, who thought his peopled palace bare,
When she, his only comfort, was not there,
Stood in the gate, and ask'd of every one,
Which way she took, and whither she was gone;
If to the court, or, with his mother's train,
In long procession to Minerva's fane?
The servants answer'd, "Neither to the court,
Where Priam's sons and daughters did resort,
Nor to the temple was she gone, to move
With prayers the blue-ey'd progeny of Jove;
But, more solicitous for him alone,

Than all their safety, to the tower was gone,
There to survey the labours of the field,
Where the Greeks conquer, and the Trojans yield;
Swiftly she pass'd, with fear and fury wild;
The nurse went lagging after with the child."

This heard, the noble Hector made no stay;
Th' admiring throng divide, to give him way;
He pass'd through every street, by which he came,
And at the gate he met the mournful dame.

L

His wife beheld him, and with eager pace
Flew to his arms, to meet a dear embrace:
His wife, who brought in dower Cilicia's crown,
And, in herself, a greater dower alone:
Aetion's heir, who on the woody plain
Of Hippoplacus did in Thebe reign.
Breathless she flew, with joy and passion wild;
The nurse came lagging after with her child.

The royal babe upon her breast was laid; Who, like the morning star, his beams display'd. Scamandrius was his name, which Hector gave, From that fair flood which Ilion's wall did lave: But him Astyanax the Trojans call,

From his great father, who defends the wall.
Hector beheld him with a silent smile:
His tender wife stood weeping by the while:
Press'd in her own, his warlike hand she took,
Then sigh'd, and thus prophetically spoke:
"Thy dauntless heart (which I foresee too late)
Too daring man, will urge thee to thy fate:
Nor dost thou pity, with a parent's mind,
This helpless orphan, whom thou leav'st behind;
Nor me, th' unhappy partner of thy bed;
Who must in triumph by the Greeks be led :
They seek thy life, and, in unequal fight
With many, will oppress thy single might:
Better it were for miserable me

To die, before the fate which I foresee.
For ah! what comfort can the world bequeath
To Hector's widow, after Hector's death?
"Eternal sorrow and perpetual tears
Began my youth, and will conclude my years:
I have no parents, friends, nor brothers left;
By stern Achilles all of life bereft.

Then when the walls of Thebes he overthrew,
His fatal hand my royal father slew;
He slew Aetion, but despoil'd him not;
Nor in his hate the funeral rites forgot;
Arm'd as he was he sent him whole below,
And reverenc'd thus the manes of his foe:

A tomb he rais'd; the mountain nymphs around
Enclos'd with planted elms the holy ground.

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"My seven brave brothers in one fatal day To Death's dark mansions took the mournful way; Slain by the same Achilles, while they keep The bellowing oxen and the bleating My mother, who the royal sceptre sway'd, Was captive to the cruel victor made, And hither led; but, hence redeem'd with gold, Her native country did again behold, And but beheld: for soon Diana's dart In an unhappy chase transfix'd her heart. "But thou, my Hector, art thyself alone My parents, brothers, and my lord in one : O kill not all my kindred o'er again, Nor tempt the dangers of the dusty plain; But in this tower, for our defence, remain. Thy wife and son are in thy ruin lost : This is a husband's and a father's post. The Scaan gate commands the plains below; Here marshal all thy soldiers as they go; And hence with other hands repel the foe. By yon wild fig-tree lies their chief ascent, And thither all their powers are daily bent: The two Ajaces have I often seen,

And the wrong'd husband of the Spartan queen : With him his greater brother; and with these Fierce Diomede and bold Meriones:

Uncertain if by augury or chance,

But by this easy rise they all advance;

Guard well that pass, secure of all beside."
To whom the noble Hector thus reply'd.

"That and the rest are in my daily care;
But should I shun the dangers of the war,
With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains,
And their proud ladies with their sweeping trains.
The Grecian swords and lances I can bear:
But loss of honour is my only fear.
Shall Hector, born to war, his birth-right yield,
Belie his courage, and forsake the field?
Early in rugged arms I took delight,

And still have been the foremost in the fight:
With dangers dearly have I bought renown,
And am the champion of my father's crown.
And yet my mind forebodes, with sure presage,
That Troy shall perish by the Grecian rage.
The fatal day draws on, when I must fall;
And universal ruin cover all.

Not Troy itself, though built by hands divine,
Nor Priam, nor his people, nor his line,
My mother, nor my brothers of renown,
Whose valour yet defends th' unhappy town;
Not these, nor all their fates which I foresee,
Are half of that concern I have for thee.
I see,
I see thee, in that fatal hour,
Subjected to the victor's cruel power;
Led hence a slave to some insulting sword,
Forlorn, and trembling at a foreign lord;
A spectacle in Argos, at the loom,
Gracing with Trojan fights a Grecian room;
Or from deep wells the living stream to take,
And on thy weary shoulders bring it back.
While, groaning under this laborious life,
They insolently call thee Hector's wife;
Upbraid thy bondage with thy husband's name;
And from my glory propagate thy shame.
This when they say, thy sorrows will increase
With anxious thoughts of former happiness;
That he is dead who could thy wrongs redress.
But I, oppress'd with iron sleep before,
Shall hear thy unavailing cries no more."
He said-

Then, holding forth his arms, he took his boy,
The pledge of love and other hope of Troy.
The fearful infant turn'd his head away,
And on his nurse's neck reclining lay,
His unknown father shunning with affright,
And looking back on so uncouth a sight;
Daunted to see a face with steel o'er-spread,
And his high plume that nodded o'er his head.
His sire and mother smil'd with silent joy;
And Hector hasten'd to relieve his boy;
Dismiss'd his burnish'd helm, that shone afar,
The pride of warriors, and the pomp of war:
Th' illustrious babe, thus reconcil'd, he took:
Hugg'd in his arms, and kiss'd, and thus he spoke:
"Parent of gods and men, propitious Jove,
And you bright synod of the powers above;
On this my son your gracious gifts bestow;
Grant him to live, and great in arms to grow,
To reign in Troy, to govern with renown,
To shield the people, and assert the crown:
That, when hereafter he from war shall come,
And bring his Trojans peace and triumph home,
Some aged man, who lives this act to see,
And who in former times remember'd me,
May say, the son in fortitude and fame
Outgoes the mark, and drowns his father's name:
That at these words his mother may rejoice,
And add her suffrage to the public voice."

Thus having said,

He first with suppliant hands the gods ador'd:
Then to the mother's arms the child restor'd:
With tears and smiles she took her son, and press'd
Th' illustrious infant to her fragrant breast.
He, wiping her fair eyes, indulg'd her grief,
And eas'd her sorrows with this last relief.

"My wife and mistress, drive thy fears away,
Nor give so bad an omen to the day;
Think not it lies in any Grecian's power,
To take my life before the fatal hour.
When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fly
Th' irrevocable doom of Destiny.

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TRANSLATIONS

FROM

THEOCRITUS, LUCRETIUS, AND HORACE.

PREFACE

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 no less a vanity, than to pretend that I have at least in some places made examples to his rules. Yet, withal, I must acknowledge, that I have 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 critics would not always think, that those thoughts are wholly mine, 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 living, and an Englishman, they are such as he would probably have written.

For, after all, a translator is to make his author appear as charming as possibly he can, provided he maintains his character, and makes him not unlike himself. 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 behold 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 botching interpreter. What English readers, unacquainted with Greek or Latin, will believe me,

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