The Iliads of Homer

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE HEROE, HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES.

Thy tomb, arms, statue, all things fit to fall
At foot of Death, and worship funeral,
Form hath bestow’d; for form is nought too dear.
Thy solid virtues yet, eterniz’d here,
My blood and wasted spirits have only found
Commanded cost, and broke so rich a ground,
Not to inter, but make thee ever spring,
As arms, tombs, statues, ev’ry earthy thing,
Shall fade aid vanish into fume before.
What lasts thrives least; yet wealth of soul is poor,
And so ’tis kept. Not thy thrice-sacred will,
Sign’d with thy death, moves any to fulfil
Thy just bequests to me. Thou dead, then I
Live dead, for giving thee eternity.

Ad Famam.

To all times future this time’s mark extend,
Homer no patron found, nor Chapman friend.
        Ignotus nimis omnibus,
        Sat notus moritur sibi.

TO THE HIGH BORN PRINCE OF MEN,
HENRY, THRICE ROYAL INHERITOR TO THE UNITED KINGDOMS OF GREAT BRITAIN, ETC.

Since perfect happiness, by Princes sought,
Is not with birth born, nor exchequers bought,
Nor follows in great trains, nor is possest
With any outward state, but makes him blest
That governs inward, and beholdeth there
All his affections stand about him bare,
That by his pow’r can send to Tower and death
All traitorous passions, marshalling beneath
His justice his mere will, and in his mind
Holds such a sceptre as can keep confin’d
His whole life’s actions in the royal bounds
Of virtue and religion, and their grounds
Takes in to sow his honours, his delights,
And cómplete empire; you should learn these rights,
Great Prince of men, by princely precedents,
Which here, in all kinds, my true zeal presents
To furnish your youth’s groundwork and first state,
And let you see one godlike man create
All sorts of worthiest men, to be contriv’d
In your worth only, giving him reviv’d
For whose life Alexander would have giv’n
One of his kingdoms; who (as sent from heav’n,
And thinking well that so divine a creature
Would never more enrich the race of nature)
Kept as his crown his works, and thought them still
His angels, in all pow’r to rule his will;
And would affirm that Homer’s poesy
Did more advance his Asian victory,
Than all his armies. O! ’tis wond’rous much,
Though nothing priz’d, that the right virtuous touch
Of a well-written soul to virtue moves;
Nor have we souls to purpose, if their loves
Of fitting objects be not so inflam’d.
How much then were this kingdom’s main soul maim’d,
To want this great inflamer of all pow’rs
That move in human souls! All realms but yours
Are honour’d with him, and hold blest that state
That have his works to read and contemplate:
In which humanity to her height is rais’d,
Which all the world, yet none enough, hath prais’d;
Seas, earth, and heav’n, he did in verse comprise,
Out-sung the Muses, and did equalize
Their king Apollo; being so far from cause
Of Princes’ light thoughts, that their gravest laws
May find stuff to be fashion’d by his lines.
Through all the pomp of kingdoms still he shines,
And graceth all his gracers. Then let lie
Your lutes and viols, and more loftily
Make the heroics of your Homer sung,
To drums and trumpets set his angel’s tongue,
And, with the princely sport of hawks you use,
Behold the kingly flight of his high muse,
And see how, like the phœnix, she renews
Her age and starry feathers in your sun,
Thousands of years attending ev’ry one
Blowing the holy fire, and throwing in
Their seasons, kingdoms, nations, that have been
Subverted in them; laws, religions, all
Offer’d to change and greedy funeral;
Yet still your Homer, lasting, living, reigning,
And proves how firm truth builds in poet’s feigning.

A prince’s statue, or in marble carv’d,
Or steel, or gold, and shrin’d, to be preserv’d,
Aloft on pillars or pyramides,
Time into lowest ruins may depress;
But drawn with all his virtues in learn’d verse,
Fame shall resound them on oblivion’s hearse,
Till graves gasp with her blasts, and dead men rise.
No gold can follow where true Poesy flies.

Then let not this divinity in earth,
Dear Prince, be slighted as she were the birth
Of idle fancy, since she works so high;
Nor let her poor disposer, Learning, lie
Still bed-rid. Both which being in men defac’d,
In men with them is God’s bright image ras’d;
For as the Sun and Moon are figures giv’n
Of his refulgent Deity in heav’n,
So Learning, and, her light’ner, Poesy,
In earth present His fiery Majesty.
Nor are kings like Him, since their diadems
Thunder and lighten and project brave beams,
But since they His clear virtues emulate,
In truth and justice imaging His state,
In bounty and humanity since they shine,
Than which is nothing like Him more divine;
Not fire, not light, the sun’s admiréd course,
The rise nor set of stars, nor all their force
In us and all this cope beneath the sky,
Nor great existence, term’d His treasury;
Since not for being greatest He is blest,
But being just, and in all virtues best.

What sets His justice and His truth best forth,
Best Prince, then use best, which is Poesy’s worth;
For, as great princes, well inform’d and deck’d
With gracious virtue, give more sure effect
To her persuasions, pleasures, real worth,
Than all th’ inferior subjects she sets forth;
Since there she shines at full, hath birth, wealth, state,
Pow’r, fortune, honour, fit to elevate
Her heav’nly merits, and so fit they are,
Since she was made for them, and they for her;
So Truth, with Poesy grac’d, is fairer far,
More proper, moving, chaste, and regular,
Than when she runs away with untruss’d Prose;
Proportion, that doth orderly dispose
Her virtuous treasure, and is queen of graces;
In Poesy decking her with choicest phrases,
Figures and numbers; when loose Prose puts on
Plain letter-habits makes her trot upon
Dull earthly business, she being mere divine;
Holds her to homely cates and harsh hedge-wine,
That should drink Poesy’s nectar; ev’ry way
One made for other, as the sun and day,
Princes and virtues. And, as in spring,
The pliant water mov’d with anything
Let fall into it, puts her motion out
In perfect circles, that move round about
The gentle fountain, one another raising;
So Truth and Poesy work; so Poesy, blazing
All subjects fall’n in her exhaustless fount,
Works most exactly, makes a true account
Of all things to her high discharges giv’n,
Till all be circular and round as heav’n.

And lastly, great Prince, mark and pardon me:—
As in a flourishing and ripe fruit-tree,
Nature hath made the bark to save the bole,
The bole the sap, the sap to deck the whole
With leaves and branches, they to bear and shield
The useful fruit, the fruit itself to yield
Guard to the kernel, and for that all those,
Since out of that again the whole tree grows;
So in our tree of man, whose nervy root
Springs in his top, from thence ev’n to his foot
There runs a mutual aid through all his parts,
All join’d in one to serve his queen of arts,[1]
In which doth Poesy like the kernel lie
Obscur’d, though her Promethean faculty
Can create men and make ev’n death to live,
For which she should live honour’d, kings should give
Comfort and help to her that she might still
Hold up their spirits in virtue, make the will
That governs in them to the pow’r conform’d,
The pow’r to justice, that the scandals, storm’d
Against the poor dame, clear’d by your fair grace,
Your grace may shine the clearer. Her low place,
Not showing her, the highest leaves obscure.
Who raise her raise themselves, and he sits sure
Whom her wing’d hand advanceth, since on it
Eternity doth, crowning virtue, sit.
All whose poor seed, like violets in their beds,
Now grow with bosom-hung and hidden heads;
For whom I must speak, though their fate convinces
Me worst of poets, to you best of princes.
        By the most humble and faithful implorer for all
             the graces to your highness eternized
                  by your divine Homer.
                            Geo. Chapman.

[1] Queen of arts—the soul.

TO THE SACRED FOUNTAIN OF PRINCES, SOLE EMPRESS OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE, ANNE, QUEEN OF ENGLAND, ETC.

With whatsoever honour we adorn
  Your royal issue, we must gratulate you,
Imperial Sovereign; who of you is born
  Is you, one tree make both the bole and bow.
If it be honour then to join you both
  To such a pow’rful work as shall defend
Both from foul death and age’s ugly moth,
  This is an honour that shall never end.
They know not virtue then, that know not what
  The virtue of defending virtue is;
It comprehends the guard of all your State,
  And joins your greatness to as great a bliss.
Shield virtue and advance her then, great Queen,
  And make this book your glass to make it seen.
          Your Majesty’s in all subjection most
             humbly consecrate,
                GEO. CHAPMAN.

TO THE READER

Lest with foul hands you touch these holy rites,
  And with prejudicacies too profane,
Pass Homer in your other poets’ slights,
  Wash here. In this porch to his num’rous fane,
Hear ancient oracles speak, and tell you whom
  You have to censure. First then Silius hear,
Who thrice was consul in renowned Rome,
  Whose verse, saith Martial, nothing shall out-wear.

SILIUS ITALICUS, LIB. XIII. 777

He, in Elysium having cast his eye
  Upon the figure of a youth, whose hair,
With purple ribands braided curiously,
  Hung on his shoulders wond’rous bright and fair,
Said: “Virgin, what is he whose heav’nly face
  Shines past all others, as the morn the night;
Whom many marvelling souls, from place to place,
  Pursue and haunt with sounds of such delight;
Whose count’nance (were’t not in the Stygian shade)
  Would make me, questionless, believe he were
A very God?” The learned virgin made
  This answer: “If thou shouldst believe it here,
Thou shouldst not err. He well deserv’d to be
  Esteem’d a God; nor held his so-much breast
A little presence of the Deity,
  His verse compris’d earth, seas, stars, souls at rest;
In song the Muses he did equalize,
  In honour Phœbus. He was only soul,
Saw all things spher’d in nature, without eyes,
  And rais’d your Troy up to the starry pole.”
Glad Scipio, viewing well this prince of 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 Æacides, to have the grace
That out of such a mouth thou shouldst be shown
  To wond’ring nations, as enrich’d the race
Of all times future with what he did know!
  Thy virtue with his verse shall ever grow.”

Now hear an Angel sing our poet’s fame,
Whom fate, for his divine song, gave that name.

ANGELUS POLITIANUS, IN NUTRICIA

More living than in old Demodocus,
  Fame glories to wax young in Homer’s verse.
And as when bright Hyperion holds to us
  His golden torch, we see the stars disperse,
And ev’ry way fly heav’n, the pallid moon
  Ev’n almost vanishing before his sight;
So, with the dazzling beams of Homer’s sun,
  All other ancient poets lose their light.
Whom when Apollo heard, out of his star,
  Singing the godlike act of honour’d men,
And equalling the actual rage of war,
  With only the divine strains of his pen,
He stood amaz’d and freely did confess
  Himself was equall’d in Mæonides.

Next hear the grave and learned Pliny use
His censure of our sacred poet’s muse.

Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. 7. cap. 29.
Turned into verse, that no prose may come near Homer.

Whom shall we choose the glory of all wits,
  Held through so many sorts of discipline
And such variety of works and spirits,
  But Grecian Homer, like whom none did shine
For form of work and matter? And because
  Our proud doom of him may stand justified
By noblest judgments, and receive applause
  In spite of envy and illiterate pride,
Great Macedon, amongst his matchless spoils
  Took from rich Persia, on his fortunes cast,
A casket finding, full of precious oils,
  Form’d all of gold, with wealthy stones enchas’d,
He took the oils out, and his nearest friends
  Ask’d in what better guard it might be us’d?
All giving their conceits to sev’ral ends,
  He answer’d: “His affections rather choos’d
An use quite opposite to all their kinds,
  And Homer’s books should with that guard be serv’d,
That the most precious work of all men’s minds
  In the most precious place might be preserv’d.
The Fount of Wit was Homer, Learning’s Sire,
  And gave antiquity her living fire.”

Volumes of like praise I could heap on this,
  Of men more ancient and more learn’d than these,
But since true virtue enough lovely is
  With her own beauties, all the suffrages
Of others I omit, and would more fain
  That Homer for himself should be belov’d,
Who ev’ry sort of love-worth did contain.
  Which how I have in my conversion prov’d
I must confess I hardly dare refer
  To reading judgments, since, so gen’rally,
Custom hath made ev’n th’ ablest agents err[2]
  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 compell.
For, ev’n as diff’rent 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,[3]
  Because, alas, great clerks! English affords,
Say they, no height nor copy; a rude tongue,
  Since ’tis their native; but in Greek or Latin
Their writs are rare, for thence true Poesy sprung;
  Though them (truth knows) they have but skill to chat in,
Compar’d with that they might say in their own;
  Since thither th’ other’s full soul cannot make
The ample transmigration to be shown
  In nature-loving Poesy; so the brake
That those translators stick in, that affect
  Their word-for-word traductions (where they lose
The free grace of their natural dialect,
  And shame their authors with a forcéd gloss)
I laugh to see; and yet as much abhor[4]
  More license 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 license 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 commentors.
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.[5]
  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
He throws at him takes in his eager jaws,
  And spoils his teeth because they cannot spoil.
The long verse hath by proof receiv’d applause
  Beyond each other number; and the foil,
That squint-ey’d Envy takes, is censur’d 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[6]
  By travelling linguists, I can prove it clear,
That no tongue hath the Muse’s utt’rance 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 oppos’d 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
  Shew 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 flow’rs
  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
Or add increase to them, the world doth need
  Another Homer, but ev’n to rehearse
And number them, they did so much exceed.
  Men thought him not a man; but that his verse
Some mere celestial nature did adorn;
  And all may well conclude it could not be,
That for the place where any man was born,
  So long and mortally could disagree
So many nations as for Homer striv’d,
  Unless his spur in them had been divine.
Then end their strife and love him, thus receiv’d,
  As born in England; see him over-shine
All other-country poets; and trust this,
  That whosesoever Muse dares use her wing
When his Muse flies, she will be truss’d by his,
  And show as if a bernacle should spring
Beneath an eagle. In none since was seen
  A soul so full of heav’n as earth’s in him.
O! if our modern Poesy had been
  As lovely as the lady he did limn,
What barbarous worldling, grovelling after gain,
  Could use her lovely parts with such rude hate,
As now she suffers under ev’ry swain?
  Since then ’tis nought but her abuse and Fate,
That thus impairs her, what is this to her
  As she is real, or in natural right?
But since in true Religion men should err
  As much as Poesy, should the abuse excite
The like contempt of her divinity,
  And that her truth, and right saint-sacred merits,
In most lives breed but rev’rence formally,
  What wonder is’t if Poesy inherits
Much less observance, being but agent for her,
  And singer of her laws, that others say?
Forth then, ye moles, sons of the earth, abhor her,
  Keep still on in the dirty vulgar way,
Till dirt receive your souls, to which ye vow,
  And with your poison’d spirits bewitch our thrifts.
Ye cannot so despise us as we you;
  Not one of you above his mole-hill lifts
His earthy mind, but, as a sort of beasts,
  Kept by their guardians, never care to hear
Their manly voices, but when in their fists
  They breathe wild whistles, and the beasts’ rude ear
Hears their curs barking, then by heaps they fly
  Headlong together; so men, beastly giv’n,
The manly soul’s voice, sacred Poesy,
  Whose hymns the angels ever sing in heav’n,
Contemn and hear not; but when brutish noises,
  For gain, lust, honour, in litigious prose
Are bellow’d out, and crack the barbarous voices
  Of Turkish stentors, O, ye lean to those,
Like itching horse to blocks or high may-poles;
  And break nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, all
In all your documents; your asinine souls,
  Proud of their burthens, feel not how they gall.
But as an ass, that in a field of weeds
  Affects a thistle, and falls fiercely to it,
That pricks and galls him, yet he feeds, and bleeds,
  Forbears a while, and licks, but cannot woo it
To leave the sharpness; when, to wreak his smart,
  He beats it with his foot, then backward kicks,
Because the thistle gall’d his forward part;
  Nor leaves till all be eat, for all the pricks,
Then falls to others with as hot a strife,
  And in that honourable war doth waste
The tall heat of his stomach, and his life;
  So in this world of weeds you worldlings taste
Your most-lov’d dainties, with such war buy peace,
  Hunger for torment, virtue kick for vice,
Cares for your states do with your states increase,
  And though ye dream ye feast in Paradise,
Yet reason’s daylight shews ye at your meat
  Asses at thistles, bleeding as ye eat.