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him as the apple of his eye. As an eagle stirrelh up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings: so the Lord alone did lead him, and there was no strange god with him."

The foolish people and unwise, before whom Moses celebrates the divine majesty and goodness, were the Israelites, whom, during more than forty years, this great man had governed, and whom he was now about to leave forever.

Homer's verses were first preserved by oral tradition. Lycurgus heard them recited in Ionia, and made the people of Sparta acquainted with them; but according to Cicero, it is to Pisistratus, the Athenian, that we are indebted for the ultimate preservation of Homer's works and fame. Pisistratus caused the books of Homer to be transcribed and placed in the public library which he founded at Athens. From this copy other manuscripts were taken, and these in modern times have been copied, multiplied and diffused by means of the art of printing.

Scholars of the sixteenth century in England employed themselves in translations from Greek and Latin. Greek and Latin tragedies, and the poetry of Virgil, and Ovid, were thus made familiar to the English reader. When Pope was a boy, about the year 1700, he " was initiated in poetry by the perusal of Ogilby's Homer, and Sandy's Virgil." Chapman's translation of Homer is also mentioned about the same time. These translations were not of a character to exclude the utility and desirableness of an improved version of Homer.

Mr. Pope began an English translation of Homer's Iliad in 1712, and finished it in 1718.

"It is," said Dr. Johnson," the noblest version of poetry which the world has ever seen; and its publication must therefore be considered as one of the great events in the annals of learning." The publication of the Iliad was completed in 1720. The Odyssey, in the translation of which Mr. Pope was assisted by two gentlemen, Fenton and Broome, was finished in 1725. From these works the principal translator derived a large sum, so that he cannot be ranked among poor poets.

Pope's Homer is among the most popular books in our language. Mr. Gibbon, the historian of the Roman empire, was greatly delighted with it when he was a boy, and would hardly

be persuaded that the venerable Grecian could be more beautiful in his original form. Lord Byron says—" Who ever read Cowper's Homer V and at the same time he speaks of the lively pleasure which Pope's Version, with its smooth and flowing versification, has afforded him. Mr. Cowper did not thus love Pope's Homer that elegant and upright poet did not consider it the "noblest version" which might be made of the ancient classic. Cowper completed a translation of the Iliad and Odyssey, on the 25 of August, 1790. He was occupied in the work five years and one month. It was written in blank verse, and how faithful soever it may be to the original, it wants the attractiveness of rhyme; and notwithstanding the judgment of some excellent scholars, that the translation of Pope is often obscure and paraphrastic, and that Cowper is more simple and more faithful to Homer, the public mind upon this subject nearly agrees with Lord Byron's opinion.

Those who sympathize with Cowper, must take some interest in a work which alleviated the sufferings of the afflicted poet. Of his completed translation he says—" Now I have only to regret that my pleasant work is ended. To the illustrious Greek I owe the smooth and easy flight of many thousand hours. He has been my companion at home and abroad, in the garden, and in the field; and no measure of success, let my labours succeed as they may, will ever compensate to me the loss of the innocent luxury that I have enjoyed as a translator of Homer."

The Iliad is the history of a war. The Odyssey is chiefly the history of an individual and his family. Though it is connected with the Trojan war, it is a description of domestic manners, and throws much light upon the religion, the state of knowledge, and the useful and ornamental arts among the Greeks at that time.

The Iliad describes a series of battles between the Greeks and Trojans. The whole narrative is highly interesting. Some rigid moralists have considered the works of Homer as dangerous to the principles of the young. He, say they, makes war attractive, and exalts the false glory of military heroes. The pure virtues which Christianity recommends are forgotten by the admirer of Homer, as he feasts his imagination in the lustre of great crimes dignified by the authority of great names.

Homer represents barbarous men as they were, but he does not forget to infuse into his narrative sentiments of religion and humanity; and these relieve his dark pictures of violent passions, ferocious manners, and wanton waste of human life. There is something in the character of the warrior facinating to the young; but other causes besides the reading of Homer,

form the false moral taste which is charmed with military glory; such are the want of Christian education—the want of an early and deep conviction that the praise of God is better than the praise of men. A mind early impressed with the beautiful character of Jesus, will feel that benevolence, and the dignity of a soul sustained by unfaltering trust in God under all circumstances, may afford nobler displays of virtue than all the occasions that war ever produced.

There exists

A higher than the warrior's excellence.
In war itself, war is no ultimate purpose.
The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
Adventures wildt and wonders of the moment—
These are not they, my son, that generate
The calm, the blissful, the enduring mighty ?

Coleridge's translation of Wallenstein.

:

Some of the finest thoughts we have seen upon this subject have been lately offered to the world in Dr. Channing's review of the life of Napoleon Bonaparte. "The greatness of the warrior," says Dr. Channing, "Is poor and low compared with the magnanimity of virtue. It vanishes before the greatness of principle. The martyr to humanity, to freedom, or religion the unshrinking adherent of despised and deserted truth; who alone, unsupported, and scorned, with no crowd to infuse into him courage, no variety of objects to draw his thoughts from himself, no opportunity of effort or resistance to rouse and nourish energy, still yields himself calmly, resolutely, with invincible philanthopy, to bear prolonged and exquisite suffering, which one retracting word might remove; such a man is as superior to the warrior, as the tranquil and boundless heavens above us, to the low earth we tread beneath our feet."

Hector, a Trojan prince, is perhaps the most interesting of Homer's heroes. The charm of Hector's character is principally derived from his amiable domestic affections. The parting of Hector and Andromache is in most collections of poetry, but it is not a less touching scene because it is well known.

PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

Ere yet I mingle in the direful fray,
My wife, my infant, claim a moment's stay;
This day (perhaps the last that sees me here)
Demands a parting word, a tender tear :

This day, some god who hates our Trojan land May vanquish Hector by a Grecian hand.

He said, and passed with sad presaging heart. To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part; At home he sought her, but he sought in vain : She, with one maid of all her menial train, Had thence retired; and with her second joy, The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy, Pensive she stood on llion's tow'ry height, Beheld the war, and sickened at the sight; There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.

But he who found not whom his soul desired, Whose virtue charmed him as her beauty fired, Stood in the gates, and asked what way she bent Her parting step? if to the fane she went, Where late the mourning matrons made resort; Or sought her sisters in the Trojan court? Not to the court, replied the attendant train, Nor mixed with matrons at Minerva's fane: To llion's steepy tower she bent her way, To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day. Troy fled, she heard, before the Grecian sword; She heard, and trembled for her absent lord : Distracted with surprise, she seemed to fly, Fear on her cheek, and sorrow in her eye. The nurse attended with her infant boy, The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy.

Hector, this heard, returned without delay; Swift through the town he trod his former way, Through streets of palaces, and walks of state, And met the mourner at the Scæan gate. With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair, His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir; The nurse stood near, in whose embraces prest His only hope hung smiling at her breast, Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, Fair as the new born star that gilds the morn. To this loved infant Hector gave the name Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream: Astyanax, the Trojans called the boy, From his great father, the defence of Troy. Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resigned To tender passions all his mighty mind;

His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bosom laboured with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

'Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run? Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son!

And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be
A widow I, a helpless orphan he !

For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ;
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain !
Oh grant me, god's! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!
So shall my days in one sad tenor run,
And end in sorrow, as they first begun.
No parent now remains, my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.'

The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire!,
His fate compassion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead,
His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil,
And laid him decent on the funeral pile :

Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned
The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorned;
Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honour grow.
By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell,
In one sad day beheld the gates of hell;
While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed,
Amid there fields the hapless heroes bled.
My mother lived to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands:
Redeemed too late, she scarce beheld again
Her pleasing empire, and her native plain,
When ah! oppressed by life-consuming wo,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

'Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee.
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all,
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share;
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!

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