synalepha, which is cutting off one vowel immediately before another, I will give an example of it from Chapman's Homer, which lies before me; for the benefit of those who understand not the Latin prosodia. It is in the first line of the argument to the first Iliad. Apollo's priest to th' Argive fleet doth bring, &c. There we see he makes it not the Argive, but th' Argive, to shun the shock of the two vowels, immediately following each other; but, in his second argument, in the same page, he gives a bad example of the quite contrary kind: Alpha the prayer of Chryses sings; In these words the army's, the ending with a vowel, and army's beginning with another vowel, without cutting off the first, which by it had been th army's, there remains a most horrible ill-sounding gap betwixt those words. I cannot say that I have every way observed the rule of the synalepha in my translation; but wheresoever I have not, it is a fault in the sound: the French and the Italians have made it an inviolable precept in their versification; therein following the severe example of the Latin poet. Our countrymen have not yet reformed their poetry so far, but content themselves with following the licentious practice of the Greeks; who, though they sometimes use synalephas, yet make no difficulty, very often, to sound one vowel upon another; as Homer does, in the very first line of Alpha. Mýviv deide ed Пnλniádew 'Axλñ. It is true, indeed, that in the second line, in these words μυρὶ ̓Αχαιοῖς, and ἀλγὲ ἔθηκεν. the synalepha in revenge is twice observed. But it becomes us, for the sake of euphony, rather Musas colere severiores, with the Romans, than to give into the looseness of the Grecians. I have tired myself, and have been summoned by the press to send away this Dedication, otherwise I had exposed some other faults, which are daily committed by our English poets; which, with care and observation, might be amended. For, after all, our language is both copious, significant, and majestical, and might be reduced into a more harmonious sound. But, for want of public encouragement, in this iron age, we are so far from making any progress in the improvement of our tongue, that in few years we shall speak and write as barbarously as our neighbours. Notwithstanding my haste, I cannot forbear to tell your lordship, that there are two fragments of Homer translated in this Miscellany; one by Mr. Congreve (whom I cannot mention without the honour which is due to his excellent parts, and that entire affection which I bear him) and the other by myself. Both the subjects are pathetical, and I am sure my friend has added to the tenderness which he found in the original, and, without flattery, surpassed his author. Yet I must needs say this in reference to Homer, that he is much more capable of exciting the manly passions than those of grief and pity. To cause admiration, is indeed the proper and adequate design of an epic poem and in that he has excelled even Virgil; yet, without presuming to arraign our master, I may venture to affirm, that he is somewhat too talkative, and more than somewhat too digressive. This is so manifest, that it cannot be denied in that little parcel which I have translated, perhaps too literally: there Andromache, in the midst of her concernment, and fright for Hector, runs off her biass, to tell him a story of her pedigree, and of the lamentable death of her father, her mother, and her seven brothers. The devil was in Hector if he knew not all this matter, as well as she who told it him; for she had been his bedfellow for many years together: and if he knew it, then it must be confessed, that Homer, in this long digression, has rather given her his own character, than that of the fair lady whom he paints. His dear friends, the commentators, who never fail him at a pinch, will needs excuse him, by making the present sorrow of Andromache to occasion the remembrance of all the past: but others think, that she had enough to do with that grief which now oppressed her, without running for assistance to her family. Virgil, I am confident, would have omitted such a work of supererogation. But Virgil had the gift of expressing much in little, and sometimes in silence; for though he yielded much to Homer in invention, he more excelled him in his admirable judgment. He drew the passion of Dido for Æneas, in the most lively and most natural colours imaginable: Homer was ambitious enough of moving pity; for he has attempted twice on the same subject of Hector's death: first, when Priam and Hecuba beheld his corpse, which was dragged after the chariot of Achilles; and then in the lamentation which was made over him, when his body was redeemed by Priam; and the same persons again bewailed his death, with a chorus of others to help the cry. But if this last excite compassion in you, as I doubt not but it will, you are more obliged to the translator than the poet: for Homer, as I observed before, can move rage better than he can pity: he stirs up the irascible appetite, as our philosophers call it; he provokes to murder, and the destruction of God's images; he forms and equips those ungodly man-killers, whom we poets, when we flatter them, call heroes; a race of men, who can never enjoy quiet in themselves, till they have taken it from all the world. This is Homer's commendation; and such as it is, the lovers of peace, or at least of more moderate heroism, will never envy him. But let Homer and Virgil contend for the prize of honour betwixt themselves; I am satisfied they will never have a third concurrent. I wish Mr. Congreve had the leisure to translate him, and the world the good-nature and justice to encourage him in that noble design, of which he is more capable than any man I know. The earl of Mulgrave and Mr. Waller, two of the best judges of our age, have assured me, that they could never read over the translation of Chapman, without incredible pleasure and extreme transport. This admiration of theirs must needs proceed from the author himself: for the translator has thrown him down as low, as harsh numbers, improper English, and a monstrous length of verse could carry him. What then would he appear in the harmonious version of one of the best writers, living in a much better age than was the last? I mean for versification, and the art of numbers: for in the drama we have not arrived to the pitch of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. But here, my lord, I am forced to break off abruptly, without endeavouring at a compliment in the close. This Miscellany is, without dispute, one of the best of the kind, which has hitherto been extant in our tongue. At least, as sir Samuel Tuke has said before me, a modest man may praise what is not his own. My fellows have no need of any protection: but I humbly recommend my part of it, as much as it deserves, to your patronage and acceptance, and all the rest to your forgiveness. I am, my lord, your lordship's most JOHN DRYDEN. TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES. THE FIRST BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES. OF bodies chang'd to various forms I sing: All were confus'd, and each disturb'd the rest. Earth sinks beneath, and draws a numerous throng First Eurus to the rising morn is sent, The stars, no longer overlaid with weight, cast. Thus, while the mute creation downward bend THE GOLDEN AGE. THE golden age was first; when man, yet new, No rule but uncorrupted reason knew; And, with a native bent, did good pursue. Unforc'd by punishment, unaw'd by fear, His words were simple, and his soul sincere: Needless was written-law, where none opprest; The law of man was written in his breast: No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd; No court erected yet, nor cause was heard; But all was safe, for conscience was their guard. The mountain-trees in distant prospect please, Ere yet the pine descended to the seas; Ere sails were spread, new oceans to explore; And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more, Confin'd their wishes to their native shore. No walls were yet, nor fence, nor mote, nor mound; Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound: Nor swords were forg'd; but, void of care and crime, The soft creation slept away their time. The teeming earth, yet guiltless of the plough, And unprovok'd, did fruitful stores allow : Content with food, which Nature freely bred, On wildings and on strawberries they fed; Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest, And falling acorns furnish'd out a feast. The flowers unsown in fields and meadows reign'd; And western winds immortal Spring maintain'd. THE SILVER AGE. BUT when good Saturn, banish'd from above, Was driven to Hell, the world was under Jove. Succeeding times a silver age behold, Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold. THE BRAZEN AGE. To this next came in course the brazen age, A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage, Not impious yet THE IRON AGE. -Hard steel succeeded then; And stubborn as the metal were the men. The guest, by him who harbour'd him, is slain: THE GIANTS WAR. NOR were the gods themselves more safe above; Against beleagur'd Heaven the giants inove. |