The Iliads of Homer by Homer
Translated from the Greek by George Chapman
London: Published by Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. Ltd.
New York: published by Charles Scribner’s Sons
****************************** Transcriber’s note:
Obvious typographic errors corrected without note in the text. (E.g. In many cases, “renown” and its variants are spelled “renowm” in the original).
Inconsistent spellings in the original text, particularly of proper names with special characters, retained in the transcription (E.g. Peleus/Peleüs).
Link for footnote in Book XIV missing from original text. Footnote[1] is included and assumed to refer to the entire book.
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Contents
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO THE READER THE PREFACE TO THE READER OF HOMER THE FIRST BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE SIXTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE SEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE EIGHTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE NINTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE ELEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE THIRTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE FIFTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE SIXTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE SEVENTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE EIGHTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE NINETEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TWENTIETH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TWENTY-FIRST BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS THE TWENTY-FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIADS EPILOGUE TO HOMER’S ILIADS
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.