From Voltaire to Monti is a long stride toward Homer’s Olympus. The Italian has infused much sweetness into this passage. And it is a native, not a grafted, sweetness. Writing in blank-verse, he neither needs nor claims the license of French translators; yet we sometimes miss Mr. Bryant’s terseness and simplicity; as in the initial lines:
“Divino Achille ti rammenta il padre
Il padre tuo da sia vecchiezza oppresso,
Qua io mi sono! In questo punto ei forse
Da potenti vicini assediato
Non ha chi lo socorra e all’ imminente
Periglio il tolga.”
To appreciate this version one needs only to glance at Cesarrotti’s. Priam’s first three words—Μνησαι πατρος σοιο!—comprise the most effective exordium in literature. They are true projectiles shot from soul to soul. Let us see if they are easily recognized in the Morte d’Ettore:
“Ah pieta, grida,
Divino Achille! Il padre tuo t’implora
Per tuo padre, pieta!”
Is it possible to place artist and word-monger in sharper antithesis? The success of his mission—perhaps his life—depends upon the first impression. Conceive royal Priam whining forth “Pity, pity!” like some professional beggar mumbling his worn-out lies. Homer said simply, “Think of thy father, Achilles!” The words, like the stroke of Moses’ rod, split the stubborn heart, and pity gushed forth in tears.
It must be admitted that Mr. Bryant’s lines are not always invested with the impassioned fervor and glowing life which have rescued the works of his English predecessors from oblivion. But it will often be found that where they were most spirited they were least Homeric. It is inevitable that a conscientious workman who resolves to copy his model in the minutest details will produce at times a mosaic rather than a casting—his materials will seem pieced and not fused. But we are sure that the sweetness of Mr. Bryant’s verse will delight the general reader, while scholars will appreciate his self-control. Animation is desirable, but fidelity is indispensable; and they who truly love the Iliad will prefer Homer in marble to Pope and Chapman in the flesh.
Over all translators of the Iliad, we confess that Voss is paramount; but no other version with which we are acquainted will bear a sustained comparison with Mr. Bryant’s. The latter’s obligations to Voss are undoubtedly great; but he has well-nigh cancelled the debt, for the next worker in the field will owe much to him. It may be that translation is not the highest function of genius; yet where it is nobly fulfilled it deserves and commands our gratitude. Nor is this all. It is something more than a figure of speech—the fine figure of Politian’s—by which Homer, assisting in the person of Ganymede at the banquet of the gods, is made to distribute to his best lovers some portion of his own ambrosia.