The English Translators of Homer.

[OUR literature is rich in poetical translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey. The most famous of the early versions is that of George Chapman, the dramatic contemporary of Shakspere. The more popular verse of Pope consigned Chapman to long and undeserved neglect, but his merit has been recognised in the present age by the publication of several new editions of the folio. It has been truly said of Pope, that, if he did not give us Homer, he produced a magnificent poem that will hold its place with the original productions of his genius. After Pope came Cowper, whose translation in blank verse is far more literal, and therefore approaches to a true reflection of the spirit of that "Tale of Troy" which has so largely influenced poetical thought in ancient and modern Europe. In our immediate times the prevailing desire to become more intimately acquainted with the Greek bard has given us new poetical versions, the most successful of which is that of the Earl of Derby, published in 1864. This is also in blank verse. It is an encouraging example to all who have arduous duties to perform, that a statesman, the powerful leader of a great party, found his true recreation in intellectual pleasures, which are open to the humblest, as well as the highest, to cultivate. The passage which we have selected for parallel translation is the Opening of the Eleventh Iliad. This affords us an opportunity of giving a fragment by Sydney Walker, whose scholarship and genius might have produced a standard version, had his time been less engrossed by desultory labours. Mr. Walker's specimen appeared in Knight's Quarterly Magazine, vol. iii., 1824.]

GEORGE CHAPMAN, born 1557, died 1634.

Aurora, out of restful bed, did from bright Tython rise,
To bring each deathless essence light, and use, to mortal eyes;
When Jove sent Eris to the Greeks, sustaining in her hand
Stern signs of her designs for war: she took her horrid stand
Upon Ulysses' huge black bark, that did at anchor ride
Amidst the fleet; from whence her sounds might ring on every

side;

Both to the tents of Telamon, and th' authors of their smarts; Who held, for fortitude and force, the navy's utmost parts.

The red-eyed goddess, seated there, thunder'd th' Orthian song, High, and with horror, through the ears of all the Grecian throng; Her verse with spirits invincible did all their breasts inspire; Blew out all darkness from their limbs, and set their hearts on

fire;

And presently was bitter war, more sweet a thousand times Than any choice in hollow keels, to greet their native climes. Atrides summon'd all to arms, to arms himself disposed.

Then all enjoin'd their charioteers to rank their chariot horse Close to the dyke: forth march'd the foot, whose front they did r'enforce

With some horse troops: the battle then was all of charioteers, Lined with light horse: but Jupiter disturb'd this form with fears, And from air's upper region did bloody vapours rain;

For sad ostent, much noble life should ere their times be slain.
The Trojan host at Ilus' tomb was in battalia led,

By Hector and Polydamas, and old Anchises' seed,
Who god-like was esteem'd in Troy; by grave Antenor's race,
Divine Agenor, Polybus, unmarried Acamas,

Proportion'd like the states of heaven: in front of all the field,
Troy's great Priamides did bear his always-equal shield,
Still plying th' ordering of his power. And as amid the sky
We sometimes see an ominous star blaze clear and dreadfully,
Then run his golden head in clouds, and straight appear again;
So Hector otherwhiles did grace the vanguard, shining plain,
Then in the rearguard hid himself, and labour'd everywhere
To order and encourage all: his armour was so clear,
And he applied each place so fast, that like a lightning thrown
Out of the shield of Jupiter, in every eye he shone.
And as upon a rich man's crop of barley or of wheat,
(Opposed for swiftness at their work,) a sort of reapers sweat,
Bear down the furrows speedily, and thick their handfuls fall:
So at the joining of the hosts ran Slaughter through them all;
None stoop'd to any fainting thought of foul inglorious flight,
But equal bore they up their heads, and fared like wolves in fight:
Stern Eris with such weeping sights rejoiced to feed her eyes;
Who only show'd herself in field of all the deities.

The other in Olympus' tops sat silent, and repined

That Jove to do the Trojans grace should bear so fix'd a mind. He cared not, but (enthroned apart) triumphant sat in sway

Of his free power; and from his seat took pleasure to display 'The cities so adorn'd with tow'rs, the sea with vessels fill'd; The splendour of refulgent arms, the killer and the kill'd.

ALEXANDER POPE, born 1688, died 1744.

The saffron morn, with early blushes spread
Now rose refulgent from Tithonius' bed:
With new-born day to gladden mortal sight,
And gild the course of heaven with sacred light:
When baleful Eris, sent by Jove's command,
The torch of discord blazing in her hand,
Through the red skies her bloody sign extends,
And, wrapt in tempests, o'er the fleet descends.
High on Ulysses' bark, her horrid stand

She took, and thunder'd through the seas and land.
Even Ajax and Achilles heard the sound,
Whose ships, remote, the guarded navy bound.
Thence the black Fury through the Grecian throng
With horror sounds the loud Orthian song:
The navy shakes, and at the dire alarms
Each bosom boils, each warrior starts to arms.
No more they sigh, inglorious to return,
But breathe revenge, and for the combat burn.
The king of men his hardy host inspires
With loud command, with great example fires;
Himself first rose, himself before the rest
His mighty limbs in radiant armour drest.

Close to the limits of the trench and mound

The fiery coursers, to their chariots bound

The squires restrain'd; the foot, with those who wield
The lighter arms, rush forward to the field.
To second these, in close array combined,
The squadrons spread their sable wings behind.
Now shouts and tumults wake the tardy sun,
As with the light the warriors' toils begun.

Even Jove, whose thunder spoke his wrath, distill'd
Red drops of blood o'er all the fatal field;
The woes of men unwilling to survey,
And all the slaughters that must stain the day.
Near Ilus' tomb, in order ranged around,
The Trojan lines possess'd the rising ground:
There wise Polydamas and Hector stood,
Æneas, honour'd as a guardian god;
Bold Polybus, Agenor the divine,
The brother warriors of Antenor's line;
With youthful Acamas, whose beauteous face
And fair proportion match'd th' ethereal race;
Great Hector cover'd with his spacious shield,
Plies all the troops, and orders all the field.
As the red star now shows his sanguine fires
Through the dark clouds, and now in night retires;
Thus through the ranks appear'd the god-like man,
Plunged in the rear, or blazing in the van;
While streamy sparkles, restless as he flies,
Flash from his arms as lightning from the skies.
As sweating reapers in some wealthy field,
Ranged in two bands, their crookèd weapons wield,
Bear down the furrows, till their labours meet;
Thick falls the heapy harvest at their feet:
So Greece and Troy the field of war divide,
And falling ranks are strew'd on every side.
None stoop'd a thought to base inglorious flight;
But horse to horse, and man to man, they fight.
Not rabid wolves more fierce contest their prey;
Each wounds, each bleeds, but none resign the day.
Discord with joy the scene of death descries,
And drinks large laughter at her sanguine eyes:
Discord alone, of all th' immortal train,
Swells the red horrors of this direful plain :
The gods in peace their golden mansions fill,
Ranged in bright order on th' Olympian hill;

But general murmurs told their griefs above,
And each accused the partial will of Jove.
Meanwhile apart, superior and alone,
Th' eternal monarch on his awful throne,
Wrapt in the blaze of boundless glory sate;
And, fix'd, fulfill'd the just decrees of fate;
On earth he turn'd his all-considering eyes,
And mark'd the spot where Ilion's towers arise;
The sea with ships, the fields with armies spread,
The victor's rage, the dying and the dead.

WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER, born early in the century, died 1846. Now from the couch of Tithon, ministering

New light to gods and men, rose Morn; when Strife,
Despatch'd by Jove, to the Achaian ships

Rush'd down, and in her hand the sign of war
Waved fearful. On Ulysses' broad black ship,
The midmost of the fleet, whence easily
Thy shout might by Achilles have been heard,
Or Ajax, at its far extremities,

She stood, and to the congregated Greeks

Raised the loud Orthian war-song, that each heart
With sudden valour fired; and had a God
Then given them choice of battle or return,
They would have chosen battle. Loud was heard
The voice of Agamemnon, as he call'd

His men to arm, and in the midst himself
Braced on his glittering armour.

The hosts

Array'd for battle: on the trench's verge

They left their chariots, and in arms themselves, Horsemen and foot, pour'd forth. Incessant shouts Vex'd the still morn. The foot moved first, the horse Close follow'd: Jove, the martial tumult wide Awakening, sent from heaven a rain-shower mix'd With blood, in sign that many a valiant soul