"First of the Sirens, couched among the flowers,
She warns us fly from the delusive song.
I only, as we pass the fatal bowers,

Have leave to listen; yet with many a thong
Need is ye bind me, and with cordage strong,
Against the socket of the mast upright,

Lest I should move; and though I urge you long To loose me, and implore with all my might,

Still bind me with more cords and strain them yet more tight."

Thus were my comrades of each several charge

Admonished; and the well-built ship meanwhile
Cut lightly through the waves, and neared the marge
Of that fell coast, the sister Sirens' isle.
Anon the wind slept, and for many a mile
Some god in silence hushed the marble mere.
Forthwith our men the canvas furl, and pile
Safe in the hollow ship their naval gear,

Lean to their oars, and whiten the blue waters clear.

Then did I haste to sever with iron keen

In morsels a great roll of wax, which lay Stored in the hollow ship, and in between

My strong palms pressed and chafed it every way. Soon the wax warmed, for the great Lord of Day, Hyperion's offspring, the imperial Sun,

Came to my succor with his burning ray. So when the mass with heat was nigh to run, I filled my comrades' ears, in order one by one.

Then did they bind me by the hands and feet
Upright against the mast with cordage strong,
And each again retiring to his seat

Smote the calm sea with furrows white and long.
We, lightly drifting the blue waves among,

Soon in our course such interval attain

As that the ear might catch the Sirens' song. Nor did the swift ship moving through the main Escape them, while they sang this sweet soul-piercing strain:

"Hither, Odysseus, great Achaian name,

Turn thy swift keel and listen to our lay; Since never pilgrim near these regions came In black ship, on the azure fields astray,

But heard our sweet voice ere he sailed away, And in his joy passed on with ampler mind.

We know what labors were in ancient day Wrought in wide Troia, as the gods assigned; We know from land to land all toils of mankind.”

While their sweet music took my spirit thus.

I with drawn brows made signal for release; But Perimedes and Eurylochus

Bind me yet faster and the cords increase,

Nor for my passion would the seamen cease Their rowing. When no more the Sirens' song

Thrilled the deep air, and on my soul came peace,

My trusty mariners unsealed ere long

Their ears, and from my limbs unwound the cordage strong.

When we had left the island in our lee,

I looked, and straight in front toward heaven uprolled Smoke, and the noises of a roaring sea,

So that with terror every heart sank cold,
And from the feeble fingers' trembling hold
Each oar dropt, whirring in the downward flood.

Dead paused the ship, no longer now controlled
By slantless oar-blades; and I passed and stood
Near each, and thus essayed to calm his fearful mood:

"Friends, we are not in dangers all unlearned,

Nor have we lighted on a vaster woe

Than when the Cyclops, who all justice spurned,
Held us immured, disdaining to let go
His captive guests. Yet verily even so
This mind and arm a great deliverance wrought.
And surely at this hour I feel, I know,
That we shall yet live to recount in thought
These labors. Come, take heart, obey me as ye ought,

"Lean to your oars and the wild breakers sweep,
If haply Zeus vouchsafe our souls to spare.
Thou, steersman, in thy breast this mandate keep,
Since of the hollow ship thou hast chief care
And at thy will dost wield her here and there :
Hold her well clear of this smoke-clouded sea,
And hug the adverse rock, lest unaware
We to the whirling gulf drift violently,
And thou o'erwhelm us all in dire calamity."

...

I my illustrious mail assuming now,

Holding in each hand a long-shafted spear,
Move to the black ship's bulwark near the prow,
First on that side expecting to appear
Rock-lurking Scylla, destined soon to bear
Such dread disaster to my comrades brave.
Nor yet could I discern her anywhere,

Though still my tired eyes straining glances gave, And pored both far and deep to pierce her murky cave.

We groaning sailed the strait. Here Scylla lay,
And there divine Charybdis, with huge throat
Gorging salt waves, which when she cast away

She spurned with hisses (as when fire makes hot
Some caldron) and the steamy froth upshot
Wide o'er both rocks. But when she gorged again,
Drunk with abysmal gurglings, one might note
The dark sands of the immeasurable main

Gleam iron-blue. The rocks loud-bellowing roared amain.

We pale with dread stared at her, fearing death.
But ravenous Scylla from the hollow bark

Six of our bravest comrades at a breath

Seized with her six necks. Turning round I mark Their forms quick vanishing toward the cavern dark, And feet and fingers dangling in mid air;

Yea, and my ear each several voice could mark

Which for the last time shrieked, with no one there To help them on my name they called in wild despair.

As when some fisher, angling in the deep,

Casts with a long rod for the smaller fry Baits and a bull's horn, from some jutting steep, And hurls the snared prey to the land close by Gasping, so these were to the rocks on high Drawn gasping, and the monster gorged them down, Stretching their hands with a loud bitter cry Toward me their captain. This was my grief's crown. Never in all my toils like anguish have I known.

YOL. 1.-10

PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[MATTHEW ARNOLD: English poet, essayist, and critic; born at Laleham, December 24, 1822; died at Liverpool, April 15, 1888. He was professor of poetry at Oxford, 1857-1867. He was government inspector of schools for nearly forty years. His earliest published works were his prize poems, "Alaric at Rome," written at Rugby, and "Cromwell," written at Oxford. His poetical works include "The Strayed Reveler, and Other Poems" (1848); "Empedocles on Etna" (1853); "Merope," a tragedy (1857); "New Poems" (1868). His prose essays include "Lectures on Celtic Literature," and "Lectures on Translating Homer," "Culture and Anarchy,” “Literature and Dogma,” and "Discourses on America."]

I. POPE'S TRANSLATION.

HOMER'S verses were some of the first words which a young Athenian heard. He heard them from his mother or his nurse before he went to school; and at school, when he went there, he was constantly occupied with them. So much did he hear of them that Socrates proposes, in the interests of morality, to have selections from Homer made, and placed in the hands of mothers and nurses, in his model republic; in order that, of an author with whom they were sure to be so perpetually conversant, the young might learn only those parts which might do them good. His language was as familiar to Sophocles, we may be quite sure, as the language of the Bible is to us.

Nay, more. Homer's language was not, of course, in the time of Sophocles, the spoken or written language of ordinary life, any more than the language of the Bible, any more than the language of poetry, is with us: but for one great species of composition - epic poetry—it was still the current language; it was the language in which every one who made that sort of poetry composed. Every one at Athens who dabbled in epic poetry, not only understood Homer's language, he possessed it. He possessed it as every one who dabbles in poetry with us possesses what may be called the poetical vocabulary, as distinguished from the vocabulary of common speech and of modern prose: I mean, such expressions as perchance for perhaps, spake for spoke, aye for ever, don for put on, charmed for charmed, and thousands of others.

Robert Wood, whose "Essay on the Genius of Homer" is

mentioned by Goethe as one of the books which fell into his hands when his powers were first developing themselves, and strongly interested him, relates a striking story. He says that in 1762, at the end of the Seven Years' War, being then UnderSecretary of State, he was directed to wait upon the President of the Council, Lord Granville, a few days before he died, with the preliminary articles of the Treaty of Paris.

"I found him," he continues, "so languid, that I proposed postponing my business for another time; but he insisted that I should stay, saying, it could not prolong his life to neglect his duty; and repeating the following passage out of Sarpedon's speech, he dwelled with particular emphasis on the third line, which recalled to his mind the distinguishing part he had taken in public affairs.

“ ὦ πέπον, εἰ μὲν γὰρ πόλεμον περὶ τόνδε φυγόντε,

αἰεὶ δὴ μέλλοιμεν ἀγήρω τ ̓ ἀθανάτω τε

ἔσσεσθ', οὔτε κεν αὐτὸς ἐνὶ πρώτοισι μαχοίμην,

οὔτε κε σὲ στέλλοιμι μάχην ἐς κυδιάνειραν·

νῦν δ' — ἔμπης γὰρ Κῆρες ἐφεστᾶσιν θανάτοιο
μυρίαι, ἃς οὐκ ἔστι φυγεῖν βρότον, οὐδ ̓ ὑπαλύξαι —
ἴομεν.

His lordship repeated the last words several times with a calm and determinate resignation; and after a serious pause of some minutes, he desired to hear the Treaty read, to which he listened with great attention, and recovered spirits enough to declare the approbation of a dying statesman (I use his own words) on the most glorious war, and most honorable peace, this nation ever saw.'

I quote this story, first, because it is interesting as exhibiting the English aristocracy at its very height of culture, lofty spirit, and greatness, towards the middle of the last century. I quote it, secondly, because it seems to me to illustrate Goethe's saying, that our life, in Homer's view of it, represents a conflict and a hell; and it brings out, too, what there is tonic and fortifying in this doctrine. I quote it, lastly, because it shows that the passage is just one of those in translating which Pope will be at his best, a passage of strong emotion and oratorical movement, not of simple narrative or description.

Pope translates the passage thus:

Could all our care elude the gloomy grave

Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,