Was to inveigh against the kings of Greece,
But always when occasion promis'd him
The public laugh. Him Greece had sent to Troy
The miscreant who sham'd his country most.
He squinted, halted, gibbous was behind
And pinch'd before, and on his tap'ring head
Grew patches only of the flimsiest down.
He hated most, and therefore most revil'd,
Achilles and Ulysses. But the theme
Of his shrill notes was Agamemnon now,
'Gainst whom the Grecians, for Achilles' sake,
Were secretly incens'd. He set his voice
At highest pitch, and thus aspers'd the king."
Perhaps the most celebrated part of the translation is the parting interview of Hector and Andromache in the sixth chapter. We do not think the version of Chapman inferior in pic-. turesque effect, nor yet in natural tenderness, though Pope has doubtless the advantage in the melody of his numbers. Chapman's is as follows:
"This said, he reacht to take his sonne; who (of his armes afraid,
And then too the horse-haire plume, with which he was so overlaid,
Nodded so horribly) he cling'd back to his nurse, and cride;
Laughter affected his great sire, who doft and laid aside
His fearfull helme, that on the earth cast round about it light,
Then tooke and kist his loving sonne, and (ballancing his weight
In dancing him) these loving vowes to living Jove he us’de,
And all the other bench of gods: O you that have infus'de
Soule to this infant, now set downe this blessing on his starre:
Let his renowne be cleare as mine; equal his strength in warre;
And may his reigne so strong in Troy, that yeares to come may yeeld
His facts this fame, (when rich in spoiles, he leaves the conquer'd field
Sowne with his slaughters.) These high deeds exceed his father's
worth:
And let this eccho'd praise supply the comforts to come forth
Of his kind mother, with my life. This said, th' heroicke sire
Gave him his mother; whose faire eyes, fresh streames of love's salt
Billow'd on her soft cheekes, to heare the last of Hector's speech,
In which his vowes compris'de the summe of all he did beseech
In her wisht comfort. So she tooke, into her odorous brest,
Her husband's gift; who (mov'd to see her heart so much opprest)
He dried her teares, and thus desir'd: Afflict me not (deare wife)
With these vaine griefes: he doth not live, that can disjoyne my life
And this firme bosome; but my fate; and fate, whose wings can flie?
Noble, ignoble Fate controuls: once born, the best must die:
Go home, and set thy houswifrie on these extremes of thought;
And drive warre from them with thy maids; keep them from doing
naught:
These will be nothing; leave the cares of warre to men and mee,
In whom (of all the Ilion race) they take their high'st degree."
As an instance of the spirit and freedom of Chapman, we quote the description of the single combat between Hector and Ajax, which is truly re-written with an air of enjoyment and bold originality about it, which is well worthy the free and magnanimous hero of the Greeks, whose noble bearing our translator always delights to describe.
"This said, old Nestor mixt the lots; the foremost lot survay'd,
With Ajax Telamon was sign'd; as all the souldiers pray'd,
One of the heralds drew it forth, who brought and shew'd it round,
Beginning at the right hand first, to all the most renown'd:
None knowing it, every man denied; but when he forth did passe,
To him which markt and cast it in, which famous Ajax was,
He stretcht his hand, and into it the herald put the lot,
Who (viewing it) th' inscription knew; the duke denied not,
But joyfully acknowledg'd it, and threw it at his feet,
And said (O friends) the lot is mine, which to my soule is sweet.
This said, in bright arms shone
The strong Ajax, who, when all his warre attire was on,
Marcht like the hugely figur'd Mars, when angry Jupiter,
With strength, on people proud of strength, sends him forth to inferre
Wreakfull contention, and comes on, with presence full of feare;
So th' Achive rampire, Telamon, did 'twixt the hosts appeare:
Smil'd, yet of terrible aspect; on earth with ample pace,
He boldly stalk'd, and shooke aloft his dart with deadly grace.
It did the Grecians good to see; but heartquakes shooke the joynts
Of all the Trojans, Hector's selfe felt thoughts, with horrid points,
Tempt his bold bosome; but he now must make no counterflight,
Nor, with his honour, now refuse, that had provok'd the fight.
Ajax came near, and like a tower, his shield his bosome barr'd,
The right side brasse, and seven oxe hides within it quilted hard;
Old Tychius, the best currier that did in Hyla dwell,
Did frame it for exceeding proofe, and wrought it wondrous well.
With this stoode he to Hector close, and with this brave began:
Now Hector thou shalt clearly know, thus meeting man to man,
With other leaders arme our hoast, besides great Thetis' sonne,
Who, with his hardie lion's heart, hath armies overrunne.
But he lies at our crook'd-stern'd fleet, a rival with our king
In height of spirit; yet to Troy, he many knights did bring,
Coequal with acides, all able to sustaine
All thy bold challenge can import: begin then, words are vaine.
The helme-grac'd Hector answer'd him; Renown'd Telamon,
Prince of the souldiers come from Greece, assay not me like one,
Young and immartial with great words, as to an Amazon dame ;
I have the habits of all fights, and know the bloudie frame
Of every slaughter; I well know the ready right hand charge;
I know the left, and every sway of my secureful targe;
I triumph in the crueltie of fixed combat fight,
And manage horse to all designes; I think then with good right,
I may be confident as farre as this my challenge goes,
Without being taxed with a vaunt, borne out with emptie showes.
But (being a souldier so renown'd) I will not worke on thee
With least advantage of that skill I know doth strengthen me,
And so with privitie of sleight, winne that for which I strive;
But at thy best (even open strength) if my endeavours thrive.
Thus sent he his long javelin forth, it strooke his foe's huge shield
Neere to the upper skirt of brasse, which was the eighth it held.
Sixe folds th' untamed dart strooke through, and in the seventh tough
hide
The point was checkt; then Ajax threw his angry lance did glide
Quite through his bright orbicular targe, his curace, skirt of maile;
And did his manly stomack's mouth, with dangerous taint assail :
But in the bowing of himself, black death too short did strike;
Then both to pluck their javelins forth, encounter'd lion-like,
Whose bloudie violence is increast by that raw food they eat:
Or boares, whose strength, wild nourishment doth make so wondrous
great.
Againe Priamides did wound, in midst, his shield of brass,
Yet pierc'd not through the upper plate, the head reflected was:
But Ajax, following his lance, smote through his target quite,
And stay'd bold Hector rushing in, the lance held way outright,
And hurt his necke; out gush'd the bloud; yet Hector ceas'd not so,
But in his strong hand took a flint, as he did backwards go,
Black, sharpe and big, lay'd in the field: the sevenfold targe it smit
Full on the bosse, and round about the brass did ring with it.
But Ajax a far greater stone lift up, and, wreathing round
With all his bodie lay'd to it, he sent it forth to wound,
And unmeasur'd force to it; the round stone broke within
His rundled target: his lov'd knees to languish did begin,
And he lean'd, stretch'd out on his shield; but Phœbus rais'd him
Then had they lay'd on wounds with swords, in use of closer fight,
Unless the heralds, messengers of Gods and godlike men,
The one of Troy, the other Greece, had held betwixt them then
Imperial scepters; when the one (Idæus, grave and wise)
Said to them: Now no more my sonnes: the soveraigne of the skies
Doth love you both, both souldiers are all witness with good right:
But now night layes her mace on earth; 'tis good t' obey the night."
The most finished and highly poetical part in the translation of Pope, is the deservedly famous night-piece at the end of the eighth book. Pope has destroyed the simplicity of the original, but he has added a gorgeous splendour to it, which with some may be considered as an improvement; and the image of the light, glimmering on the walls of the city, is his own, and a very beautiful touch of picturesque description. Nothing, however, can be finer than the noble translation of Chapman, to which it will be seen Pope is much indebted.* "This speech alt Trojans did applaud, who from their traces loos'd Their sweating horse, which severally with headstals they repos'd, And fasten'd by their chariots; when others brought from town Fat sheep and oxen instantly; bread, wine, and hewed down Huge store of wood; the winds transfer'd into the friendly sky Their supper's savour; to the which they sate delightfully And spent all night in open field, fires round about them shin'd As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind,
And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and the brows
Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves for shows;
And even the lowly vallies joy to glitter in their sight,
When the unmeasur'd firmament bursts to disclose her light,
And all the signs in heaven are seen, that glad the shepherd's heart; So many fires disclos'd their beams, made by the Trojan part
Before the face of Ilion, and her bright turrets show'd.
A thousand courts of guard kept fires; and every guard allow'd
Fifty stout men, by whom their horse eat oats and hard white corn,
And all did wilfully expect the silver-throned morn."
"The troops exulting sat in order round, And beaming fires illumin'd all the ground.
As an instance, the "shining vales" are not in the original, but
taken from Chapman's "vallies."
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver ev'ry mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
And lighten glimm'ring Xanthus with their rays:
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.
A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,
And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field.
Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Whose umber'd arms, by fits, thick flashes send:
Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn,
And ardent warriors wait the rising morn."
We will now proceed to make a few selections from the Odyssey. Chapman here employs a different kind of metre from the fourteen-syllable lines of the Iliad. The metre of the Odyssey is like the heroic measure only, in its rhyme and its number of syllables. In all other respects, in the hands of Chapman, it has the freedom of blank verse. And in reading it, as well as the Iliad, the reader must not depend for aid too much on the melody of the verse.
The first extract we' shall make is the description of the metamorphoses of Proteus, which we think Chapman has delineated with much more nature and liveliness than his successor in the task; who, it must always be remembered, had Chapman ever open before him.
"But now I'le shew thee all the old God's slights;
He first will number, and take all the sights
Of those, his guards, that on the shore arrives.
When having view'd, and told them forth by fives,
He takes place in their midst, and then doth sleep,
Like to a shepherd 'midst his flock of sheep.
In his first sleep, call up your hardiest cheer
Vigor and violence, and hold him there,
In spite of all his strivings to be gone.
He then will turn himself to every one
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