in death,

ANOTHER.

THE great Mæonides doth only write,
And to him dictates the great God of
Light.

ANOTHER.

breathe.

swell the womb

And with prejudicacies too profane, Pass Homer in your other poets' slights,

Wash here. In this porch to his numerous

fane,

ghosts,

Said: "O, if Fates would give this poet leave

To sing the acts done by the Roman hosts,

How much beyond would future times receive

The same facts made by any other known!

O blest acides, to have the grace That out of such a mouth thou shouldst be shown

Of

To wondering nations, as enrich'd the

Of others I omit, and would more fain That Homer for himself should be beloved,

Who every sort of love-worth did contain. Which how I have in my conversion proved

I must confess I hardly dare refer

To reading judgments, since, so generally,

Custom hath made even th' ablest agents

err

In these translations; all so much apply Their pains and cunnings word for word to render

Their patient authors, when they may as well

Make fish with fowl, camels with whales, engender,

Or their tongues' speech in other mouths compel.

For, even as different a production

Ask Greek and English, since as they in sounds

And letters shun one form and unison;

So have their sense and elegancy bounds In their distinguish'd natures, and require Only a judgment to make both consent In sense and elocution; and aspire,

As well to reach the spirit that was spent In his example, as with art to pierce

His grammar, and etymology of words. †But as great clerks can write no English

verse,

I laugh to see; and yet as much abhor* More licence from the words than may express

Their full compression, and make clear the author;

From whose truth, if you think my feet digress,

Because I use needful periphrases,

Read Valla, Hessus, that in Latin prose And verse convert him; read the Messines That into Tuscan turns him; and the gloss

Grave Salel makes in French, as he translates;

Which, for th' aforesaid reasons, all must do;

And see that my conversion much abates

The licence they take, and more shows him too,

Whose right not all those great learn'd men have done,

In some main parts, that were his com

mentars.

But, as the illustration of the sun

Should be attempted by the erring stars,

They fail'd to search his deep and treasurous heart;

The cause was, since they wanted the fit key

Of Nature, in their downright strength of Art, t

With Poesy to open Poesy : Which, in my poem of the mysteries

Reveal'd in Homer, I will clearly prove; Till whose near birth, suspend your calumnies,

And far-wide imputations of self-love. "Tis further from me than the worst that reads,

Professing me the worst of all that write;

Yet what, in following one that bravely leads,

The worst may show, let this proof hold the light.

But grant it clear; yet hath detraction got

My blind side in the form my verse puts

on;

Much like a dung-hill mastiff, that dares

not

Assault the man he barks at, but the

stone

"The necesary nearness of Translation to the example."

"The power of Nature above Art in Poesy."

He throws at him, takes in his eager jaws, And spoils his teeth because they cannot spoil.

The long verse hath by proof received applause

Beyond each other number; and the foil,

That squint-eyed Envy takes, is censured plain;

For this long poem asks this length of

verse,

Which I myself ingenuously maintain

Too long our shorter authors to rehearse.

And, for our tongue that still is so impair'd

By travelling linguists, I can prove it clear,

*That no tongue hath the Muse's utterance heir'd

For verse, and that sweet music to the

ear

Strook out of rhyme, so naturally as this; Our monosyllables so kindly fall,

And meet opposed in rhyme as they did kiss;

French and Italian most immetrical, Their many syllables in harsh collision

Fall as they break their necks; their bastard rhymes

Saluting as they justled in transition, And set our teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor times

Kept in their falls; and, methinks, their long words

Show in short verse as in a narrow place

Two opposites should meet with two-hand swords

Unwieldily, without or use or grace. Thus having rid the rubs, and strow'd these flowers

In our thrice-sacred Homer's English

way,

What rests to make him yet more worthy yours?

To cite more praise of him were mere delay

To your glad searches for what those men found

That gave his praise, past all, so high a place;

Whose virtues were so many, and so crown'd

By all consents divine, that, not to grace

*Our English language above all others for Rhythmical Poesy.