Above that group, o'erarched from tree to tree,
Thick garlands hung their odorous canopy.
'Pomp of cloud'—'reflects its lustre'—'worthy centre'—'odorous canopy'; these are just the phrases that nobody would write who took the trouble to think. And why in the world should poor King Arthur be compared to the moon? He has been much misrepresented by many poets; he was a semi-barbarous Welshman, whom our Somersetshire men drove into the sea down by Tintagel: but he has had a sacer vates, and we do not see why he should be subjected to inferior treatment. Is there anything in the contemporary Arthurean verse that approaches Sir Ector's lament over Sir Launcelot of the Lake—Achilles of the Arthurean Iliad?... 'Ah Sir Launcelot, thou wert head of all Christian Knights.... And thou wert the courteousest knight that ever bore shield. And thou wert the truest friend to thy lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman. And thou wert the kindest man that ever struck with sword. And thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights. And thou wert the meekest man and the greatest that ever ate in hall among ladies. And thou wert the truest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in rest.' So says the old poet. Can Lord Lytton or Mr. Alfred Tennyson approach him? Can Homer beat him? The illustrations of this edition are scarcely worthy of the poem.
The Iliad of Homer. Translated by J. G. Cordery. Rivingtons.
Englishing Homer has of late been a general occupation with men of letters, and we should be the last to object to it. We delight in Homer. We rather dislike the effeminate treatment which some of his myths have met at the hands of one or two eminent modern poets. We hold that there is more in the sonorous swing of those demiurgic dactyls than the contemporary writers of blank verse can quite comprehend. Erratic enough are we to hold that there was one Homer, not many—that no purpurei panni of Peisistratus were interwoven with his cloth of gold—that he was an isolated leader of thought. Certain also are we that his influence is in these days much needed, and that his Greek ideas are of great service to modern Englishmen; his strength and simplicity are things we possess and admire; many an Achilles has led the forlorn hope for England, and many an Odysseus has been a F.R.G.S. There is nothing more remarkable in Homer than what we shall venture to call his Englishness. Hence, from one point of view the late Earl of Derby translated him well; for the Earl was an Englishman every inch, and, as we have heretofore said in these pages, the Hector of the Tory Troy. But as the Earl was not a poet, he could not exactly render as he ought to be rendered the supreme poet of the pagan past. Lord Derby saw in him the part which is visible to the English legislator and landowner. There is a good deal more than this in Homer scarcely comprehensible by the race whose motto is sans changer. There are unfathomable depths of poetic philosophy in those two oceans of thought which we call the 'Iliad' and 'Odyssey.' The key-note is struck in Διὸς δ' ἐτελείετο βουλή : throughout Homer we find the will of the supreme Divinity always manifested.
It is, we believe, this coincidence of English with Hellenic ideas which causes so many men of different types to find pleasure in Homer. Think of the chasm between Pope and the "sick vulture," or even between Lord Derby and the poet Worsley. The theme is tempting, but space avails not; we must say a word or two on Mr. Cordery's 'Iliad.' He seems, so far as we have followed him, to know his Greek excellently well; but he assuredly does not know the power and capacity of English blank verse. The rhythmic weapon, the most difficult we know, is not within his power to wield. Thus he commences the 'Iliad'—those lines which, as Lord Macaulay would say, 'every schoolboy knows'—
'Sing, goddess, of Achilles, Peleus' son
The wrath that rose disastrous, and the cause
Of woes unnumbered to Achaia's host,' &c.
The first few lines suffice. Here is a writer who cannot wield the metre he has chosen. This being so, we find it undesirable to enter farther into any discussion of the merits of his version, and shall content ourselves with giving conscientious praise to his loving and patient attempt to do a great work which is beyond his height of attainment. This is not contemptuous nor careless criticism. Not yet has Homer been done into English. Will any future translator give us Homer's unutterable music, Homer's unfathomable thought?