There is nothing very surprising in Milton's preference of Euripides, though so unlike himself. It is very common—very natural—for men to like and even admire an exhibition of power very different in kind from any thing of their own. No jealousy arises. Milton preferred Ovid too, and I dare say he admired both as a man of sensibility admires a lovely woman, with a feeling into which jealousy or envy cannot enter. With Aeschylus or Sophocles he might perchance have matched himself.
In Euripides you have oftentimes a very near approach to comedy, and I hardly know any writer in whom you can find such fine models of serious and dignified conversation.
[Footnote 1:
Greek:
Euíppoy, Xége, tmsde chosas
Tchoy tà chzátista gãs esaula
tdn àxgaeta Kolanón'—ch. t. l. v. 668]
[Footnote 2:
Greek:
"Exos" Exos, ó chat' ômmátton
s tázeos póthon eisagog glycheïan
Psuchä cháriu oûs èpithtzateúsei
mae moi totè sèn chachõ phaneiaes
maeô ãrruthmos ëlthois—x.t.l v.527]
[Footnote 3:
I take it for granted that Mr. Coleridge alluded to the chorus,—
[Greek: Su men, _o patrhis Ilias t_on aporhth_et_on polis ouketi lexei toion El- lan_on nephos amphi se krhuptei, dorhi d_e, dorhi perhsan—k. t. l.] v. 899.
Thou, then, oh, natal Troy! no more
The city of the unsack'd shalt be,
So thick from dark Achaia's shore
The cloud of war hath covered thee.
Ah! not again
I tread thy plain—
The spear—the spear hath rent thy pride;
The flame hath scarr'd thee deep and wide;
Thy coronal of towers is shorn,
And thou most piteous art—most naked and forlorn!
I perish'd at the noon of night!
When sleep had seal'd each weary eye;
When the dance was o'er,
And harps no more
Rang out in choral minstrelsy.
In the dear bower of delight
My husband slept in joy;
His shield and spear
Suspended near,
Secure he slept: that sailor band
Full sure he deem'd no more should stand
Beneath the walls of Troy.
And I too, by the taper's light,
Which in the golden mirror's haze
Flash'd its interminable rays,
Bound up the tresses of my hair,
That I Love's peaceful sleep might share.
I slept; but, hark! that war-shout dread,
Which rolling through the city spread;
And this the cry,—"When, Sons of Greece,
When shall the lingering leaguer cease;
When will ye spoil Troy's watch-tower high,
And home return?"—I heard the cry,
And, starting from the genial bed,
Veiled, as a Doric maid, I fled,
And knelt, Diana, at thy holy fane,
A trembling suppliant—all in vain.]