THE ILIADS OF HOMER
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORYTO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE HEROE, HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES.Thy tomb, arms, statue, all things fit to fallAt 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 foundCommanded 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 fulfilThy just bequests to me. Thou dead, then ILive 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 possestWith any outward state, but makes him blestThat governs inward, and beholdeth thereAll his affections stand about him bare,That by his pow’r can send to Tower and deathAll traitorous passions, marshalling beneathHis justice his mere will, and in his mindHolds such a sceptre as can keep confin’dHis whole life’s actions in the royal boundsOf virtue and religion, and their groundsTakes 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 presentsTo furnish your youth’s groundwork and first state,And let you see one godlike man createAll sorts of worthiest men, to be contriv’dIn your worth only, giving him reviv’dFor whose life Alexander would have giv’nOne of his kingdoms; who (as sent from heav’n,And thinking well that so divine a creatureWould never more enrich the race of nature)Kept as his crown his works, and thought them stillHis angels, in all pow’r to rule his will;And would affirm that Homer’s poesyDid more advance his Asian victory,Than all his armies. O! ’tis wond’rous much,Though nothing priz’d, that the right virtuous touchOf a well-written soul to virtue moves;Nor have we souls to purpose, if their lovesOf 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’rsThat move in human souls! All realms but yoursAre honour’d with him, and hold blest that stateThat 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 equalizeTheir king Apollo; being so far from causeOf Princes’ light thoughts, that their gravest lawsMay 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 lieYour lutes and viols, and more loftilyMake 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 renewsHer age and starry feathers in your sun,Thousands of years attending ev’ry oneBlowing the holy fire, and throwing inTheir seasons, kingdoms, nations, that have beenSubverted in them; laws, religions, allOffer’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 birthOf idle fancy, since she works so high;Nor let her poor disposer, Learning, lieStill 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’nOf 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 diademsThunder 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 forceIn 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’dWith gracious virtue, give more sure effectTo 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 elevateHer 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 disposeHer virtuous treasure, and is queen of graces;In Poesy decking her with choicest phrases,Figures and numbers; when loose Prose puts onPlain letter-habits makes her trot uponDull earthly business, she being mere divine;Holds her to homely cates and harsh hedge-wine,That should drink Poesy’s nectar; ev’ry wayOne made for other, as the sun and day,Princes and virtues. And, as in spring,The pliant water mov’d with anythingLet fall into it, puts her motion outIn perfect circles, that move round aboutThe gentle fountain, one another raising;So Truth and Poesy work; so Poesy, blazingAll subjects fall’n in her exhaustless fount,Works most exactly, makes a true accountOf 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 wholeWith leaves and branches, they to bear and shieldThe useful fruit, the fruit itself to yieldGuard 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 rootSprings in his top, from thence ev’n to his footThere 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 lieObscur’d, though her Promethean facultyCan create men and make ev’n death to live,For which she should live honour’d, kings should giveComfort and help to her that she might stillHold up their spirits in virtue, make the willThat governs in them to the pow’r conform’d,The pow’r to justice, that the scandals, storm’dAgainst 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 sureWhom her wing’d hand advanceth, since on itEternity 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 convincesMe worst of poets, to you best of princes.By the most humble and faithful implorer for allthe graces to your highness eternizedby 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 adornYour royal issue, we must gratulate you,Imperial Sovereign; who of you is bornIs you, one tree make both the bole and bow.If it be honour then to join you bothTo such a pow’rful work as shall defendBoth from foul death and age’s ugly moth,This is an honour that shall never end.They know not virtue then, that know not whatThe 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 mosthumbly consecrate,GEO. CHAPMAN.
Thy tomb, arms, statue, all things fit to fallAt 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 foundCommanded 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 fulfilThy just bequests to me. Thou dead, then ILive 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.
Since perfect happiness, by Princes sought,Is not with birth born, nor exchequers bought,Nor follows in great trains, nor is possestWith any outward state, but makes him blestThat governs inward, and beholdeth thereAll his affections stand about him bare,That by his pow’r can send to Tower and deathAll traitorous passions, marshalling beneathHis justice his mere will, and in his mindHolds such a sceptre as can keep confin’dHis whole life’s actions in the royal boundsOf virtue and religion, and their groundsTakes 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 presentsTo furnish your youth’s groundwork and first state,And let you see one godlike man createAll sorts of worthiest men, to be contriv’dIn your worth only, giving him reviv’dFor whose life Alexander would have giv’nOne of his kingdoms; who (as sent from heav’n,And thinking well that so divine a creatureWould never more enrich the race of nature)Kept as his crown his works, and thought them stillHis angels, in all pow’r to rule his will;And would affirm that Homer’s poesyDid more advance his Asian victory,Than all his armies. O! ’tis wond’rous much,Though nothing priz’d, that the right virtuous touchOf a well-written soul to virtue moves;Nor have we souls to purpose, if their lovesOf 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’rsThat move in human souls! All realms but yoursAre honour’d with him, and hold blest that stateThat 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 equalizeTheir king Apollo; being so far from causeOf Princes’ light thoughts, that their gravest lawsMay 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 lieYour lutes and viols, and more loftilyMake 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 renewsHer age and starry feathers in your sun,Thousands of years attending ev’ry oneBlowing the holy fire, and throwing inTheir seasons, kingdoms, nations, that have beenSubverted in them; laws, religions, allOffer’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 birthOf idle fancy, since she works so high;Nor let her poor disposer, Learning, lieStill 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’nOf 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 diademsThunder 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 forceIn 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’dWith gracious virtue, give more sure effectTo 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 elevateHer 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 disposeHer virtuous treasure, and is queen of graces;In Poesy decking her with choicest phrases,Figures and numbers; when loose Prose puts onPlain letter-habits makes her trot uponDull earthly business, she being mere divine;Holds her to homely cates and harsh hedge-wine,That should drink Poesy’s nectar; ev’ry wayOne made for other, as the sun and day,Princes and virtues. And, as in spring,The pliant water mov’d with anythingLet fall into it, puts her motion outIn perfect circles, that move round aboutThe gentle fountain, one another raising;So Truth and Poesy work; so Poesy, blazingAll subjects fall’n in her exhaustless fount,Works most exactly, makes a true accountOf 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 wholeWith leaves and branches, they to bear and shieldThe useful fruit, the fruit itself to yieldGuard 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 rootSprings in his top, from thence ev’n to his footThere 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 lieObscur’d, though her Promethean facultyCan create men and make ev’n death to live,For which she should live honour’d, kings should giveComfort and help to her that she might stillHold up their spirits in virtue, make the willThat governs in them to the pow’r conform’d,The pow’r to justice, that the scandals, storm’dAgainst 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 sureWhom her wing’d hand advanceth, since on itEternity 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 convincesMe worst of poets, to you best of princes.By the most humble and faithful implorer for allthe graces to your highness eternizedby your divine Homer.Geo. Chapman.
[1]Queen of arts—the soul.
With whatsoever honour we adornYour royal issue, we must gratulate you,Imperial Sovereign; who of you is bornIs you, one tree make both the bole and bow.If it be honour then to join you bothTo such a pow’rful work as shall defendBoth from foul death and age’s ugly moth,This is an honour that shall never end.They know not virtue then, that know not whatThe 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 mosthumbly consecrate,GEO. CHAPMAN.