his Myrmidons from the army before Troy. It is a good specimen of the "daring fiery spirit" which Pope attributes to this old version, and on the second reading will, we think, be found animated with the life of an original.

Agamemnon addresses Calchas:

Prophet of ill! For never good came from thee towards me!
Not to a word's worth: evermore, thou tookst delight to be
Offensive in thy auguries, which thou continuest still;
Now casting thy prophetique gall, and vouching all our ill
(Shot from Apollo) is impos'd; since I refus'd the prise
Of faire Chryseis' libertie; which would in no worth rise,
To my rate of her selfe; which moves, my vowes to have her home;
Past Clytemnestra loving her, that grac't my nuptiall roome,
With her virginitie and flowre. Nor aske her merits lesse,
For person, disposition, wit, and skill in housewiferies.
And yet, for all this, she shall go; if more conducible
That course be, than her holding here. I rather wish the weale
Of my lov'd armie, than the death. Provide, yet instantly,
Supplie for her, that I alone, of all our royaltie,

Lose not my winnings: 'tis not fit, ye see all, I lose mine
Forc't by another: see as well, some other may resigne

His prise to me. To this, replied the swift-foote God-like sonne
Of Thetis, thus: King of us all, in all ambition;

Most covetouse of all that breathe, why should the great-soul'd Greeks
Supply thy lost prise, out of theirs? nor what thy avarice seekes,
Our common treasurie can find, so little it doth guard

Of what our raz'd towns yielded us; of all which, most is shar'd,
And given our souldiers; which againe, to take into our hands
Were ignominious and base. Now then, since God commands,
Part with thy most lov'd prise to him: not any one of us
Exacts it of thee; yet we all, all losse thou sufferst thus,
Will treble, quadruple in gaine, when Jupiter bestowes
The sacke of well-wall'd Troy on us; which by his word, he owes.
Do not deceive yourselfe with wit, (he answer'd) God-like man,
Though your good name may colour it, 'tis not your swift foote can
Out runne me here; nor shall the glosse, set on it, with the God,
Perswade me to my wrong. Wouldst thou maintaine in sure abode
Thine owne prise, and sleight me of mine. Resolve this: if our friends
(As fits in equitie my worth) will right me with amends,
So rest it; otherwise myselfe will enter personally
On thy prise; that of Ithacus, or Ajax, for supply;
Let him, on whom I enter, rage.
Hereafter, and in other place.

But come, we'le order these,
Now put to sacred seas

Our blacke saile; in it rowers put, in it fit sacrifice;

And to these, I will make ascend my so much envied prise,
Bright-cheekt Chryseis. For conduct of all which, we must chuse
A chiefe out of our counsellors, thy service we must use,
Idomeneus; Ajax, thine, or thine, wise Ithacus,

Or thine, thou terriblest of men, thou sonne of Peleus,

Which fittest were, that thou mightst see these holy acts perform'd, For which thy cunning zeale so pleades; and he whose bow thus

storm'd

For our offences, may be calm'd.

Achilles, with a frowne,

Thus answer'd; O thou impudent! of no good but thine owne,
Ever respectfull; but of that, with all craft, covetous;

With what heart can a man attempt a service dangerous,

Or at thy voice be spirited to flie upon a foe,

Thy mind thus wretched? For myselfe, I was not injur'd so,
By any Trojan, that my powers should bid them any blowes;

In nothing beare they blame of me. Phthia, whose bosome flowes
With corne and people, never felt empaire of her increase,
By their invasion; hils enow and farre resounding seas

Powre out their shades and deepes betweene: but thee, thou frontlesse

man,

We follow, and thy triumphs make, with bonfires of our bane:
Thine, and thy brother's vengeance sought (thou dog's eyes) of this

Troy

By our expos'd lives, whose deserts thou neither dost employ
With honour nor with care. And now, thou threatst to force from me
The fruite of my sweate, which the Greekes gave all; and though it be
(Compar'd with thy part, then snatcht up) nothing; nor ever is
At any sackt towne; but of fight (the fetcher in of this)

My hands have most share; in whose toyles, when I have emptied me
Of all my forces; my amends, in liberalitie

(Though it be little) I accept, and turne pleas'd to my tent; And yet that little, thou esteemst, too great a continent

In thy incontinent avarice. For Phthia therefore now

My course is, since 'tis better farre, than here endure, that thou
Shouldst still be ravishing my right, draw my whole treasure drie,
And adde dishonor. He replied: If thy heart serve thee, flie;
Stay not for my cause; others here will aid and honor me;

If not, yet Jove I know is sure; that counsellor is he

That I depend on; as for thee, of all our Jove-kept kings,

Thou still art most my enemie: strifes, battels, bloodie things,

Make thy blood feasts still. But if strength, that these moods build

upon,

Flow in thy nerves, God gave thee it, and so 'tis not thine owne,

But in his hands still; what then lifts thy pride in this so hie?
Home with thy fleete and myrmidons, use there their emperie,
Command not here; I weigh thee not, nor meane to magnifie
Thy rough hewne rages; but instead, I thus farre threaten thee:
Since Phœbus needs will force from me Chryseis, she shall go;
My ships and friends shall waft her home: but I will imitate so
His pleasure, that mine owne shall take, in person, from thy tent
Bright-cheekt Briseis; and so tell thy strength how eminent
My powre is, being compar'd with thine; all other, making feare
To vaunt equalitie with me, or in this proud kind beare

Their beards against me. Thetis' sonne, at this stood vext; his heart Bristled his bosome, and two waies drew his discursive part;

If from his thigh his sharpe sword drawne, he should make roome about

Atrides' person, slaught'ring him; or fit his anger out

And curb his spirit. While these thoughts striv'd in his bloud and

mind,

And he his sword drew; downe from heaven, Athenia* stoopt, and shin'd

About his temples, being sent by th' ivorie-wristed queene,

Saturnia, who, out of her heart, had ever loving bene,

And carefull for the good of both. She stood behind, and tooke
Achilles by the yellow curles, and onely gave her looke
To him appearance; not a man of all the rest could see.
He, turning backe his eye, amaze strooke everie facultie;
Yet straight he knew her by her eyes, so terrible they were
Sparkling with ardor, and thus spake: Thou seed of Jupiter,
Why com'st thou? to behold his pride, that boasts our emperie?
Then witnesse, with it, my revenge, and see that insolence die,
That lives to wrong me. She replied, I come from heaven to see
Thy anger settled; if thy soule will use her soveraigntie
In fit reflection. I am sent from Juno, whose affects
Stand heartily inclin'd to both: come, give us both respects,
And cease contention; draw no sword, use words, and such as may
Be bitter to his pride, but just; for trust in what I say,

A time shall come, when thrice the worth of that he forceth now,
He shall propose for recompense of these wrongs; therefore throw
Reines on thy passions, and serve us. He answer'd: Though my heart
Burne in just anger, yet my soule must conquer th' angrie part,
And yield you conquest. Who subdues his earthly part for heaven,
Heaven to his prayres subdues his wish. This said, her charge was
given,

Fit honor on his silver hilt he held his able hand,

And forc't his broad sword up; and up to heaven did reascend
Minerva, who in Jove's high roofe, that beares the rough shield, tooke
Her place with other deities. She gone, againe forsooke
Patience his passion, and no more his silence could confine

His wrath, that this broad language gave. Thou ever steep't in wine,
Dog's face! with heart, but of a hart: that nor in th' open eye

Of fight, dar'st thrust into a presse; nor with our noblest, lie

In secret ambush. These workes seeme too full of death for thee;

'Tis safer farre in th' open host to dare an injurie

To any crosser of thy lust. Thou subject-eating king,

Base spirits thou governst; or this wrong had bene the last fowle thing
Thou ever author'dst; yet I vow, and by a great oath sweare,

Even by this scepter, that as this never againe shall beare
Greene leaves or branches, nor increase with any growth his sise,
Nor did, since first it left the hils, and had his faculties

And ornaments bereft with iron, which now to other end

Judges of Greece beare; and their lawes, receiv'd from Jove, defend,
(For which, my oath to thee is great.) So whensoever need
Shall burne with thirst of me, thy host, no prayres shall ever breed
Affection in me to their aid; though well deserved woes

Afflict thee for them; when to death man-slaughtring Hector throwes
Whole troopes of them, and thou torment'st thy vext mind with con-

ceit

Of thy rude rage now, and his wrong, that most deserv'd the right
Of all thy armie. Thus he threw his scepter gainst the ground
With golden studs stucke, and tooke seate. Atrides' breast was drown'd
In rising choler. Up to both, sweet-spoken Nestor stood,
The cunning Pylian orator, whose tongue powr'd forth a flood
Of more then hony-sweet discourse: two ages were increast
Of diverse languag'd men, all borne in his time, and deceast
In sacred Pylos, where he reign'd amongst the third-ag'd men:
He (well seene in the world) advis'd, and thus exprest it then."

Homer's admirable sketch of the buffoon and demagogue, Thersites, we shall next extract, as translated in three versions of Chapman, Pope, and Cowper. The first we consider as full of spirit, and true to the original; the second is a highly finished painting, but the lines which gave strength and touch to the likeness seem to us to have faded under the hand of the too careful artist. To say nothing of the misconception of the author's meaning in the words " vext when he spoke," the character of Thersites is endowed by the translator with qualities not in Homer, which raise him in consequence, but destroy the consistency and keeping of the whole. Cowper's version speaks

for itself; it is close and correct, and as elegant as such a translation can be.

"Thersites onely would speake all. A most disorder'd state

Of words he foolishly powr'd out, of which his mind held more
Then it could manage; any thing with which he could procure
Laughter, he never could containe. He should have yet bene sure
To touch no kings. T'oppose their states becomes not jesters' parts.
But he the filthiest fellow was of all that had deserts

In Troye's brave siege : he was squint-ey'd, and lame of either foote;
So crooke-backt, that he had no breast; sharpe-headed, where did

shoote

(Here and there sperst) thin mossie haire. He most of all envied
Ulysses and Æacides, whom still his splene would chide;
Nor could the sacred king himselfe avoid his saucie veine,

Against whom, since he knew the Greekes did vehement hates sus

taine

(Being angrie for Achilles' wrong) he cried out, railing thus."

"At length the tumult sinks, the noises cease,
And a still silence lulls the camp to peace.
Thersites only clamor'd in the throng,
Loquacious, loud, and turbulent of tongue :
Aw'd by no shame, by no respect controll'd,
In scandal busy, in reproaches bold:
With witty malice studious to defame;
Scorn all his joy, and laughter all his aim.
But chief he glory'd with licentious style
To lash the great, and monarchs to revile.
His figure such as might his soul proclaim;
One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame:
His mountain-shoulders half his breast o'erspread,
Thin hairs bestrew'd his long mis-shapen head.
Spleen to mankind his envious heart possest,
And much he hated all, but most the best.
Ulysses or Achilles still his theme;

Chapman.

Vex'd when he spoke, yet still they heard him speak.

Sharp was his voice; which, in the shrillest tone,

Thus with injurious taunts attack'd the throne."

"The host once more all seated and compos'd,
Thersites still was heard, and he alone;
Loquacious, loud, and coarse, his chief delight

Pope.