The Press. — London, England, 1857-07-11 00:00:00

% 682 Compare that with Pope, and" Oh! the difference to me !" But Pope's beautiful hue, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene, was in Cowper's memory when he said, Not a vapour streaks the boundless blue ; for Homer says nothing of vapours, nor, had not Pope negatived the idea of clond4, had Cowper. But seldom indeed it is that that most original writer owes even a word to anybody ; here Pope was natural, and Cowper, in uncoil• seiously remembering him, forgot Homer. Neither does Homer speak of " blue " as Cowper does; yet blue, beyond doubt or praise, is the firmament, and there can be no harm in saying so. Cowper felt the meaning of that un• translatable word kericeiir, and his • Ether, open'd wide, All glitters, is magnificent—perhaps even finer than Homer, for it gives the effect in fewer and simpler words — it is indeed poAry. " And the shepherd's heart is cheer'd," is, like Idemer—bible-like and divine. And now for Sotheby. He must have come to the passage prepared for a high achievement. Has he sue. ceetled ? Not entirely to our heart's desire. "At night's illumined noon " is a fine expression, had it stood by itself—for it shows us at once the moon and stars in heaven. It proves Sotheby to be a poet. But it does not, like the town of Kilkenny, "shine well where it stands." Thit nothing resembling it is in Homer, is one fatal ob jection to it, on the score of fidelity, the first of virtues in a translator—herself the Queen, all others being her sub jects, and brightening and extending her sway. But there is another. Why is there nothing resembling it in Homer? Because Homer is going to show us " night's illumined noon ;" and in what lies the illumination. Therefore he does not lay down that thesis, as Sotheby does, and then illustrate it by divine discourse. So pregnant is that thesis of Sotheby's, that it is in itself a shining sermon, and needed no preacher. Mr. Sotheby will see at once that this objection is, like every objection of ours, insuperable. He hashed the misfortune to paint a fine picture at one sweep ; and we are so perfectly satisfied with it, that we are dissatisfied with Lis future filling-up, and eager to snatch the pencil out of his hand. It may seem hard to punish a man for a flush of genius, bat justice compels us to do so; and Sotheby stands reproved before us, exalted, however, rather than humbled by the sentence of an incorruptible Itademantlius. Beam in their brightness round the full.orb'd moon, is fine and hold; and also in itself a picture. The next two lines are perfect; "then gleam the vales," very imper fect, as we said before, and we do wish lie had given us the woods. " Ether widely riven," comes perhaps as near as is possible to the difficult Zw•teio'ys Ao-vcruzo; and there is great grandeur in the line, Expands to other stars another heaven. That, unquestionably, is the vision seen by Homer. Would not " for," in place of " to," perhaps be betters The riving up from below of the boundless ether expands another heaven for (or with) other stars. In that expan sion they have room for all their multitudes—then and there seems to be infinitude. With the concluding lines, fine as they are in themselves, we are not satisfied. Sotheby knows as well as any man wherein lies the power of Homer's immortal half hexameter. Cowper caught it, and embodied it in equal bulk. Chapman like wise seized its spirit. Pope, unaffected apparently by that scripture, or betrayed into forgetfulness of its manifest character by the ruling passion in which he wrote, ambition to excel Homer, diluted the simple sentiment of the shep herd, which is indeed nothing else than natural religion, into feeble metaphysics and a cold philosophy. " Conscious swains," is silly ; and " bless the useful light," is absolutely the doctrine of the Utilitarians applied to the gratitude of the shepherd, Where he doth summer high in bliss upon the hills of God! Our objections to Sotheby's lines, over and above the main one, amplification of simplicity, are different front those urged against Pope's, but nearly as strong. • Watchful of his fold," is an idea always interesting, but " watchful " is, to our ear, •needlessly intense. In that beautiful chapter of the New Testament, the shepherd. • were watching their flocks by night." " Watchful," could never have entered into that verse. On so serene a night as that Homer tlescrib;!s, when all was pence, the shepherd could have had no fears about his fold. He was sitting or lying beside them, but not " watchful ;" he merely felt that they were there ; for their sakes ton, as well as his own, his heart was cheered by the heavens he looked on ; and happier even than he knew at that hour was the pastoral life. There is much that is true and beautiful, but something also of the hypereriticitl, in the above remarks. We must say w.) can see no objection to " refulgent lamp of light." The two lines beginning " O'er the dark trees" are more open to objection, as marked by Pope's inveterate habit of interpolation ; but the next two lines are in our opinion inaani ficent. far superior to Cowper, and somewhat superior to Sotheby. The " widely riven "of the latter is prosaic, and " opened wide" utterly tame. The more we gaze upon the sky on a bright starry night, tha farther we seem to see into it. All heaven bursts her Many floors, And strews her lights below, Aod deepens on and up ; and Mr. Tennyson when ho wrote these glorious lines must have been unconsciously chart to et herd into swat the the wt Oi mail tho' NV w , beat pons nigt \' shci ' shit mer as 11 on ; pas Th 801 ab, ob. tw 3n( Pa th , Sc su th , uti sk Be an THE PRESS, JULY 11,1857. inspired by those of which they are so exqui site a paraphrase. With one more passage we must conclude this brief and imperfect notice of so extensive and delightful a subject. It is the deputation appointed by Nestor to wait upon Achilles in his tent. 'Wilson here does full justice to Pope, whose version of this noble scene is indeed nearly perfect, and seems fully in ac cordance with the canon laid down by Dryden iu his essay on translation Si AetTEIV 'EMCEE, Alva /romhpXoicrigoto Ocaricranc, noxxn thn ' x' nixotavw yaoka , 'Errociyaily `Piaiwc wilstAtiv Ihrya ' A.ft; tpvra; A:axibao. Mvu.4.ll6rtvy TE xXsaiac xai vita; ixicr9nY, TOY tr 100 Y Pei," TIE7r6 ftiVoll powtyys Xiyai7 Kean - i ' asSeal7, ini S . aEyi,ceov ;iv' '1";77 if iveiEwv, , r6xtv 'Hrriwyo; OXicra•a; • T>l o yt Ovican i r teary, i cti d t sea xXia avdi;iv. POPE. _ _ Through the still night they march, and hear the roar Of murmuring billows on the sounding shore. To Neptune, ruler of the seas profound, Whose liquid arms the mighty globe surround, They pour forth vows their embassy to bless, And calm the rage of stern /Eacides. And now arrived, where on the sandy bay The 111yrmidonian tents and vessels lay, Amused at ease, the godlike man they found, rleased with the solemn harp's harmonious sound (The well-wrought harp from conquer'd Thebte came, Of polished silver was its costly frame). With this he soothes his angry soul, and sings Th' immortal deeds of heroes and of kings. We have just been reading over Pope for the tenth time this evening, and though we might not unjustly find some faint fault with a few particular words, yet we should be ashamed of ourselves were we to do so ; fur he is Alexander the Great here, and is attired With sudden brightness, like a man inspired. The versification is most harmonious ; and the lines might themselves be chanted to the harp. I'npe, when happy, had a heroic genius ; and thouvh true it is that he too too often miserably misrepresents Homer, it is, as we have said, wilfully, and with malice aforethou!ht—seldom i n ignorance, and never in stupidity ; but knowing that his strength lay in a style essentially different from the old bard's it was not to be expected, perhaps not to be desired, that he should lay it aside, and endeavour to aiopt Homer's, or imitate it, which, to a poet who had attained consummate excellence of another kind, would have been accompanied with the perpetual constraint of difficulty, nay, impossible. We must take it, then, as it is, and be thank ful for another Iliad. We trust wo have succeeded in giving our readers a fair impression of tho Professor's style. His volume is a most valuable contri bution to our stock of criticism. He has not bent his mind to the formal enunciaton of any new laws ; but he has poured forth a flood of genial illustration, of sound sensible distinctions, and of true and touching eulogy, which whoso studies attentively cannot fail to .have his sympathies extended, his taste puri fied, and his scholarship sharpened. We may, perhaps, be able to give our readers another short notice of this volume, embracing the " Odyssey " and the " Aga memnon." But in default of doing so we may state that they are treated on precisely the same system, and that in them respectively North's love of nature and exuberant energy and passion find ample ground for running riot. Poems. By Edward Wilberforce and Edmund Forster Blanchard. London: Longmans. THESE poems possess just that degree of merit which render the future reputation of the writers uncertain. We could not say that two new poets had suddenly burst upon the world, neither could we deny that these verses contain germs of excellence which may possibly bear fruit hereafter. Both—to use the phraseology of a well-known London tavern in regard to its wines—belong to the genus " light and elegant;" and there is a tone of airiness throughout them which prevents weariness, if it does not cause delight. They ara clever and in teresting; indicate some thought upon human life, and considerable observation of nature. We subjoin an extract from each : BOAT SERENADE. (By Mr. Wilberforce.) Lazily dip our quiet oars As we steal away from the silent shores That erst have rung with the notes of glee, And re-echoed our heart-felt revelry. Slumbers the wave, but wherever the blade Reluctant a lingering plunge has made, Its path is with flashes of pearl-foam light, And the sleeping billow springs into light. E'en thus from the slumbering Past, of thee Arises a gleam of memory; And the meanest sights have power to bring Thy form to my nightly imagining. Sittest thou now—'cis the hour of love— On the rock•worked couch in the orange grove, Where from shrub to shrub, with their tiny light, The fire-flies flit through the perfumed night ? O then, when drifts the moon's pale beam Through trellised boughs on yon babbling stream, And calmly white the effulgence rests On the black rough stones, midst the flashing crests, Think but of me, as away we glide And skim the green sea's quiet tide, And swiftly dip our sparkling oars As we dart from the shade of the silent shores. AT FIRST SIGHT. (By Mr. Blanchard.) " Bo old a story, and tell it no better V . Pippa passes. No shadow in the sunshine, No ripple on the rill ; No wind, to waft from Heaven The lark's ecstatic trill; No violet by the brook•side Suggests a violet eye ; No dappled foxglove pealeth A. fairy lullaby. The daisy bows in worship, Its humble, trusting head Beneath my feet ; then startles From my retreating tread. The crisp, impatient crocus, With yellow, birdlike bill, I crush till it resembles The yellow daffodil. Such. yesterday, my humour — My unobservant mind ; No unawakened heart hears The music of the wind. I saw not that these flowers Were emblems of the fates— Of yielding, striving lovers, With striving, yielding mates. Unconscious of the violet, Thine eyes from me concealed, — No sentiment in snowdrops, Thy graces nnrevealed. In ignorance most moonlike Of all that passion tells, I knew not that the foxglove Could mu►mur marriage-bells. But having gazed upon thee, I see all kindred grace ; In flowers' translucent beauties Reflected is thy face ; The lark's song falls upon me In trembles from above, A clear voice with which mingles The deep tones of thy love. THE New Monthly gives us a continuation of the fortunes of Miss May (now Mrs. Frederick Lyvett) under the title of " The Countrywoman and the Child." All this series of tales are written with con siderable power. A review of Mrs. Gaskell's " Life of Charlotte Bronte," and the " History of the Newspaper Press," are two ether capital papers. Tait has two very good reviews of two very good books —the Life of Stephenson and of Handel ; a sensible article on the Divorce Bill, strongly advo cates " the rights of women " in the matter of pro perty ; " Sketches of Jersey " is a pleasant little paper ; and the remainder are about as usual. The Train contains several good papers. " The Old Eton Montem " is very nicely done, and the tale entitled " The Dead Double " is told with some ability. We are afraid we cannot se.y much for Mr. Draper's rivalry of Mr. Leigh Hunt—impar con gressus—va his translation of Walter de Mapes' drinking song. The first number of Mr. Lever's new serial, Davenport Dunn, is very promising. It is, of course, too early as yet to express any opinion on the merit of the characters, but all Mr. Lever's old humour is perceptible in the following scene, where two flue ladies—one of rather a speculative turn — receive a sporting dependant, one-third gentleman, one-third jockey, one-third upper servant : " How d'ye do, Spicer ?" said Lady Lackington, arranging the folds of her dress as he came forward, and intimating by the action that he was 7:Cit to delude himself into any expectation of touching her hand. "My Lord told me you were here." Spicer bowed, and muttered, and looked, as though he were waiting to be formally presented to the other lady in company ; but Lady Lackington had not the most remote intention of bestowing on him such a mark of recognition, and merely answered the mute appeal of his features by a dry " W'on't you sit down ?" And Mr. Spicer did sit down, and of a verity his position denoted no excess of ease or enjoyment. It was not that he did not attempt to appear perfectly at home, that he did not assume an attitude of the very calmest sellpossession, maybe he even passed somewhat the frontier of the lacka daisical territory he assumed, fur he slapped his bout with his whip in a jaunty a ffectation of indifference : " " Pray, don't do that ! " said Lady Lackington, it worries one ! " He desisted, and a very awkward silence of some seconds ensued i at length she said, " There was something or I