The Odyssey (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

was less cultivated than at present. If something like the general sense could be decorated with the easy gracefulness of a practised poet; if the charms of metrical cadence and a pleasing fluency could be made consistent with a fair interpretation of the poet’s meaning, his words were less jealously sought for, and those who could read so good a poem as Pope’s Iliad had fair reason to be satisfied.

      It would be absurd, therefore, to test Pope’s translation by our own advancing knowledge of the original text. We must be content to look at it as a most delightful work in itself — a work which is as much a part of English literature as Homer himself is of Greek. We must not be torn from our kindly associations with the old Iliad, that once was our most cherished companion, or our most looked-for prize, merely because Buttmann, Loewe, and Liddell have made us so much more accurate as to amphikipellon being an adjective, and not a substantive. Far be it from us to defend the faults of Pope, especially when we think of Chapman’s fine, bold, rough old English; — far be it from us to hold up his translation as what a translation of Homer might be. But we can still dismiss Pope’s Iliad to the hands of our readers, with the consciousness that they must have read a very great number of books before they have read its fellow.

       Theodore Alois Buckley.

       Christ Church.

Book I

       Argument.

MINERVA’S DESCENT TO ITHACA.

      The poem opens within forty eight days of the arrival of Ulysses in his dominions. He had now remained seven years in the Island of Calypso, when the gods assembled in council, proposed the method of his departure from thence and his return to his native country. For this purpose it is concluded to send Mercury to Calypso, and Pallas immediately descends to Ithaca. She holds a conference with Telemachus, in the shape of Mantes, king of Taphians; in which she advises him to take a journey in quest of his father Ulysses, to Pylos and Sparta, where Nestor and Menelaus yet reigned; then, after having visibly displayed her divinity, disappears. The suitors of Penelope make great entertainments, and riot in her palace till night. Phemius sings to them the return of the Grecians, till Penelope puts a stop to the song. Some words arise between the suitors and Telemachus, who summons the council to meet the day following.

      The man for wisdom’s various arts renown’d,

      Long exercised in woes, O Muse! resound;

      Who, when his arms had wrought the destined fall

      Of sacred Troy, and razed her heaven-built wall,

      Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray’d,

      Their manners noted, and their states survey’d,

      On stormy seas unnumber’d toils he bore,

      Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:

      Vain toils! their impious folly dared to prey

      On herds devoted to the god of day;

      The god vindictive doom’d them never more

      (Ah, men unbless’d!) to touch that natal shore.

      Oh, snatch some portion of these acts from fate,

      Celestial Muse! and to our world relate.

      Now at their native realms the Greeks arrived;

      All who the wars of ten long years survived;

      And ‘scaped the perils of the gulfy main.

      Ulysses, sole of all the victor train,

      An exile from his dear paternal coast,

      Deplored his absent queen and empire lost.

      Calypso in her caves constrain’d his stay,

      With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay;

      In vain-for now the circling years disclose

      The day predestined to reward his woes.

      At length his Ithaca is given by fate,

      Where yet new labours his arrival wait;

      At length their rage the hostile powers restrain,

      All but the ruthless monarch of the main.

      But now the god, remote, a heavenly guest,

      In AEthiopia graced the genial feast

      (A race divided, whom with sloping rays

      The rising and descending sun surveys);

      There on the world’s extremest verge revered

      With hecatombs and prayer in pomp preferr’d,

      Distant he lay: while in the bright abodes

      Of high Olympus, Jove convened the gods:

      The assembly thus the sire supreme address’d,

      AEgysthus’ fate revolving in his breast,

      Whom young Orestes to the dreary coast

      Of Pluto sent, a blood-polluted ghost.

      “Perverse mankind! whose wills, created free,

      Charge all their woes on absolute degree;

      All to the dooming gods their guilt translate,

      And follies are miscall’d the crimes of fate.

      When to his lust AEgysthus gave the rein,

      Did fate, or we, the adulterous act constrain?

      Did fate, or we, when great Atrides died,

      Urge the bold traitor to the regicide?

      Hermes I sent, while yet his soul remain’d

      Sincere from royal blood, and faith profaned;

      To warn the wretch, that young Orestes, grown

      To manly years, should re-assert the throne.

      Yet, impotent of mind, and uncontroll’d,

      He plunged into the gulf which Heaven foretold.”

      Here paused the god; and pensive thus replies

      Minerva, graceful with her azure eyes:

      “O thou! from whom the whole creation springs,

      The source of power on earth derived to kings!

      His death was equal to the direful deed;

      So may the man of blood be doomed to bleed!

      But grief and rage alternate wound my breast

      For brave Ulysses, still by fate oppress’d.

      Amidst an isle, around whose rocky shore

      The forests murmur, and the surges roar,

      The blameless hero from his wish’d-for home

      A goddess guards in her enchanted dome;

      (Atlas her sire, to whose far-piercing eye

      The wonders of the deep expanded lie;

      The eternal columns which on earth he rears

      End in the starry vault, and prop the spheres).

      By his fair daughter is the chief confined,

      Who soothes to dear delight his anxious mind;

      Successless all her soft caresses prove,

      To banish from his breast his country’s love;

      To see the smoke from his loved palace rise,

      While the dear isle in distant prospect lies,