LORD CARNARVON'S "ODYSSEY."* Tars is a very pleasant book to

read, and is, indeed, the best translation of the Odyssey with which the present writer is ac- quainted. It is not, of course, so elaborate a poem as Worsley's beautiful translation,—the fault of which is, indeed, that it is too elaborate, and breaks up Homer's flowing narrative into complex stanzas which remind us of nothing less than the simple continuity of Homer's tale. It does not aim at as much vigour as Mr. Way's version,—a vigour which, admirable as it is, not unfrequently completely eclipses the sweetness and fluency of the original, and which snits the Iliad better than the Odyssey. But without too much elaborateness of any kind, Lord Carnarvon's verse seems to us to reflect the silvery ease of the Odyssey better than any other. We read it with less disturbing recollection that it is a trans- lation, with more of the sense of grace and charm belonging to an old-world poet, though not expressed in old-world forms of speech (by which, indeed, it is quite impossible to revive the effect of classical antiquity), than attach to most of our modern translations. Those passages which are most polished without being in any sense most naïf, seem to suit Lord Carnarvon best. Nothing is, for instance, better in the volume than the descrip- tion of Calypso in her grotto, when Hermes is sent to warn her that she must let Ulysses go :—

" There from the purple sea

The God stepped forth, nor paused until he stood Hard by the entrance of the mighty cave,

Where dwelt the fair-haired Nymph. Within she sat;

On the broad hearth the goodly flame burnt bright, And through the isle was wafted far and wide The scent of frankincense and cedar log.

Within she sat ; and bending o'er the loom Wrought with her golden shuttle on the web, And ever as she wrought sang with clear voice.

Around that grotto grew a goodly grove,

Alder and poplar and the cypress sweet ; And there the deep-winged sea-birds found their haunt, And owls and hawks and long-tongued cormoranta, Who joy to live upon the briny flood.

And o'er the face of that deep cave a vine Wove its wild tangles and its clustering grapes.

Four fountains too, each from the other turned, Poured their white waters, whilst the grassy meads Bloomed with the parsley and the violet's flower.

It was a sight in wroth at which a God Might wonder and rejoice; and Hermes stood, And marvelled with delight; but when his mind Was sated with the sight, he straightway came Unto the grotto. Him Calypso knew, Immortal Goddess—for th' Immortal Gods, Though far apart they dwell, are ever known Each to the other. Not within the cave

• The Odyssey of Homer. Books Trensksted into English Verse by the Earl of Caraarron. London Macmillan and Co. Was the stout-hearted Chief, but grieving sore On the sea.beaoh he eat, as he was wont ; And ever gazing on the barren sea

He vexed his seal with tears and bitter moans."

We do not think that it would be easy to improve greatly on

that version. It has the ease and polish of the original, and nothing of modern mannerism to confuse the impression.

Equally good is the picture of Ulysses making his prayer to Nansicaa, when the outcry of her attendants over the loss of

the ball in the stream has awakened him from sleep :—

"And so it chanced the ball the Princess threw

Unto her handmaids missed the mark, and fell Into the swirl of the deep-eddying stream ; Whereat they cried aloud, and the stout Chief,

Awoke, sat up, and questioned with himself

Woe's me, what land of mortal men is this ?

Are they some savage race sans law and right ? Or kind to strangers, of God-fearing mood ?

The voice of maidens strikes upon my ear; Is it the Nymphs who haunt the mountain•tops, And dwell in river fonnts and grassy meads, Or am I near to men of human speech ?

I'll trial make and see.' He spake, and crept From out his covert, breaking a MA& bough Wherewith to clothe himself. And so he went, As goes a mountain lion in his strength Through rain and storm, and in his eyes a flame Glares murderous, as when on herds or flocks Or the wild hart intent, he fareth forth, For famine pangs drive hint to make assault Against the weaklings of the crowded fold.

So was Odysseus 'mid those fair-tressed girls Constrained though naked to come forth; and fierce And terrible he seemed stained with the brine.

And in disorder and dismay they fled

By shelving edge and jutting spit of shore.

But not Altinous' daughter. She stood fast ; Attend gave her courage, and her limbs

Shook not with fear' bat firm she stood and stayed

His coming. Then Odysseus doubted sore Whether to kneel at the fair maiden's knee, Or stand aloof and plead with winning words, That she should give him raiment and a guide Unto the town. And as he mused he deemed Better it were to stand apart and plead With honied words, rather than humbly clasp Her knees and anger her. So with soft speech And cunning he began ;

Tell me, 0 Queen,

Art than of mortal lineage or divine P If thou art one of Heaven's high company Most like thou art, methinks, to Artemis,

Daughter of ZOCIB, in stature and in face;

But if then art of them who dwell on earth, Thrice happy, then, thy sire and mother too, And thy fond brothers, when with pride they see Thee, ince some lovely flower, adorn the dance; But happiest he of all the sons of men, Who with his wedding gifts shall win thy love, And lead thee to his home. Never before Have mine eyes lit on such a peerless form Of man or woman ; as I gaze my heart

Flows o'er with reverent awe. Yet I recall

How that in Delos once within the shrine, Beside Apollo's altar I beheld

The tender sapling of a palm-tree grow.

For I was there, one of a mighty host

Bound on a journey full of woe to me—

And as I gazed I marvelled in myself At that most goodly plant ; so, Lady, now When I see thee, I marvel and I fear E'en in the midst of grief to clasp thy knees."

On the other band, Lord Carnarvon often seems to us to miss the naivete of Homer, even where it would have been possible to render it without any loss of dignity. Thus, when Circe tells Ulysses that he must visit the world below before he can reach his home, he describes his dismay with quite antique candour and simplicity :—

"So she spake.

But my dear heart was broken by her words.

Sitting upon the bed I wept, nor had The will or courage then to face the day.

But when my tears and throes of grief were spent, I said, '0 Circe, who shall guide me there ?

For to the world below no ship has sped?"

Lord Carnarvon's version is as follows :— " So she spake,

And all my spirit seemed within me crushed.

Upon the couch I wept, nor longer oared To live and look upon the light of day.

At length I ceased to wallow in my grief, And answer made; 'Who then shall be our guide To Hades, where no mortal ship hath sailed ? "

"All my spirit seemed within me crushed" has not the aim. plicity of limys ie9 qtaog *rap. " Conch " is not so

simple as "bed ;" and the omission of aaJilmsor is a mistake, for the picture of a great hero sitting crying on the bed, and tossing his limbs about in anguish at the prospect of so formid- able an expedition, is very characteristic of the Odyssey. And "I ceased to wallow in my grief" is to our ears very harsh and un-Homerie.

Lord Carnarvon's translation is most like the original in passages of polished and beautiful description; least like it, we think, in passages of pathetic and tender emotion. Nor is this so much, perhaps, the fault of the translator as the fault of his metre. Blank verse suits well enough passages of the former kind, but is a very imperfect medium for passages of the latter kind. Take, for instance, the conversation between Ulysses and his mother in the shades below. We are at once aware of the defectiveness of the decasyllable rhythm for the purpose of explaining the mother's sense of the longing of the deserted wife and deserted father for the absent husband and son ; and still more of its shortcomings when that overwhelming yearning for his return which had cut off his mother's own hold on life, and taken her prematurely to the grave, is expressed in it :—

" Bet I stood firm until my Mother came, And drank the dark blood. Me forthwith she knew And straightway spake;

My Son, how earnest thou here In mortal guise unto these gloomy shades, Which mortals scarce may sec? 'Twilit them and us Lie the dread floods of mighty streams, whereof Chiefeet is Ocean, whom no wayfarer May cross save with the convoy of stout bark. Mast thou long since come hither from Tray'. siege With ship and comrades, nor yet visited Thy native Ithaca and thy dear wife ?' She spoke, and I replied ; 'Oh Mother mine, 'Tis stern necessity bath led me here Below, to question with the Theban Seer; Nor yet have I seen Greece or my dear land, But sorrow-laden have I wandered on, Since first I followed Agamemnon's host To Ilium famed for its fair steeds, that I Might fight against Tray's armies. But say truth, And tell me how death's summons to thee came, Was it some slow disease which laid thee low, Or the mild shafts of quivered Artemis?

And tell me too of aged Sire and Son; Live they and keep they fast my heritage ?

Or do they deem that I shall ne'er return ?

Say too what thinks and purposes my wife :

Abides she by my son and keeps the house, Or is she wedded to Achasan chief ?'

I ceased, and she replied; 'Thy wife yet lives, And bides with patient courage in thy halls, Though day and night go by in tearful grief.

Nor yet bath stranger seized thy heritage ; But undisturbed Telemachus thy son Tills thy domain, and rules the equal feast As it beseemeth one, whom men call Chief ; For all men bid him to their company.

But in the fields far from the busy town Thy father dwells; nor coach, nor coverlet, Nor costly broideries his slumbers soothe.

All through tho winter, with the menial herd, Beside the dusty hearth in beggar robes He lays him down, and in the summer-tide Or teeming autumn, on a couch of leaves Stretched on the ground within the vineyard's pale, He makes his ceaseless moan for thy return,

While cheerless age steals on. So too I died ;

But not within the palace was I slain

By the mild shafts of quiver'd Artemis;

Nor did some wasting sickness rob my life, But strong desire and yearning love for thee Stole my fond life away."

Perhaps Lord Carnarvon's version is generally as good as the rhythm would permit. But he does not give, perhaps could not give, to it, the thrill of tender melancholy which pervades the original. He does not give adequately the picture of the wife whose desolate nights and days were worn away in tears. He does not give adequately the picture of the old father lying in the ashes, or on the fallen leaves, pouring forth his lamentations, while his grief ever swells within him, and the dreary gift of years weighs him down. Still less does he give adequately the exquisitely pathetic lines in which the mother of Ulysses explains that it was no shaft of Artemis, nor any climate), or consumption, but "the yearning for thee, the care for thee, illustrious Ulysses, and thy tenderness, which 'stole my fond life away." The last five words, Which are Lord Carnarvon's, are very effective ; but in the whole passage, as he renders it, there is a deficiency in that lingering movement, that tremor of maternal sadness, which the Homeric hexameter seems almost expressly adapted to convey in its most perfect form.

Still, taken as a whole, this version is so good, and even where it falls short, as it often must, of the original, engrafts so little that is alien to its apirit upon it, that we cannot but hope that Lord Carnarvon will complete his work, and give us the last twelve books with as much spirit and as much fidelity as he has embodied in his rendering of the first half of the Odyssey.