But not until after his death did fame breathe aloud his praise. It has since been echoed through each succeeding age, by applauding millions. "Our author's work," says Mr. Pope, "is a wild paradise, where, if we cannot see all the beauties so distinctly as in an ordered garden, it is only because the number of them is infinitely greater. It is like a copious nursery, which contains the seeds and first productions of every kind, out of which those who followed him have but selected some particular plants, each according to his fancy, to cultivate and beautify. If some things are too luxuriant, it is owing to the richness of the soil; and if others are not arrived to perfection or maturity, it is only because they are overrun and oppressed by those of a stronger nature." In speaking of the growing interest of the Iliad, and the poet's fancy, he says: "It is, however, remarkable that his fancy, which is everywhere vigorous, is not discovered immediately at the beginning of his poem in its fullest splendor: it grows in the progress, both on himself and others, and becomes on fire, like a chariot wheel, by its own rapidity. Exact disposition, just thought, correct elocution, polished numbers, may have been found in a thousand; but this poetic fire, this 'vivida vis animi,' in a very few."

The inimitable writings of Homer, as translated by Pope, we have read with enthusiastic delight. How it is that the blind can derive any degree of satisfaction from descriptive poetry, has long been a subject of speculation and doubt. Nor can we reflect much

light upon it. How is is that one who has never seen light and color, is able to form any conception of distance, or extent beyond his reach, or of brilliant objects, as the moon and stars, of the rainbow or the landscape, must remain, to the seeing, enigmatical. We can no more describe to you, fortunate reader, the light which our own fancy sheds around objects, by which our minds take cognizance of them, than you can describe to us the clear light of the sun, or how it pictures upon your mind the objects from which it is reflected.

It may not be uninteresting to those of our readers who have followed us thus far, to give in this connection, a brief description (however vague and imperfect) of our own feelings on reading the wonderful productions of Homer. As our reader gives rapid and distinct utterance to each happily applied word, and as each complete sentence conveys to the mind its full import, every picture drawn by the immortal poet lies before us, glowing with its own poetic fire, and busy with life. Every active, moving and breathing image passes in quick succession before our view, and at their respective distances from each other. Entirely wrapped within ourselves, and excluded from meaner objects without, we are borne unconsciously and irresistibly, on the wings of fancy, to the scenes so vividly described. Our reader is transported with us, and performs a conspicuous part in the drama. He is successively transformed in the

several characters; and every word he articulates, grows with significance as the scene heightens.

The writings of Homer must ever stand an inde structible monument of his deathless fame: a sublime structure so well proportioned in all its parts, and so sacred to genius, that it is almost sacrilege to tear from it relics of artistic skill.

FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF THE ILIAD.

Jupiter assembles the gods, and commands them not to assist either army. Minerva, however, obtains his consent to aid the Greeks. He afterwards descends to Mount Ida, and balances the fate of the Greeks and Trojans. For force and dignity, this description excels everything we have yet read. The most perfect creations of modern degenerate genius, are mere pigmies when compared with this giantthis twin-brother of perfection.

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn,
Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn,
When Jove convened the senate of the skies,
Where high Olympus' cloudy tops arise.
The sire of gods his awful silence broke,
The heavens, attentive, trembled as he spoke :
"Celestial states, immortal gods! give ear!
Hear our decree, and reverence what ye hear!
The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move,
Thou, Fate! fulfill it; and, ye powers, approve
What god but enters yon forbidden field,
Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield,

Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven,
Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven:
Or far, oh! far, from steep Olympus thrown,
Low in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan,
With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors.
And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors;

As deep beneath the infernal center hurl'd,

As from that center to the ethereal world.

Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes;
And know, the Almighty is the god of gods.
League all your forces then, ye powers above,
Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove:
Let down our golden, everlasting chain,

Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main
Strive all, of mortal, and immortal birth,

To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth
Ye strive in vain! If I but stretch this hand,

I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land;
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height,

And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight!
For such I reign, unbounded and above;
And such are men and gods compared to Jove."
Th' Almighty spoke, nor durst the powers reply,

A reverend horror silenced all the sky:

Trembling they stood before their sovereign's look;
At length his best beloved, the power of wisdom spoke:
"Oh, first and greatest! god by gods adored!
We own thy might, our father and our lord!
But, ah! permit to pity human state;

If not to help, at least lament their fate.

From fields forbidden we submiss refrain,
With arms unaiding mourn our Argives slain;

Yet grant my counsels still their breasts may move.
Or all must perish in the wrath of Jove."

The cloud-compelling god her suit approved,
And smiled superior on his best beloved:

Then called his coursers, and his chariot took;
The steadfast firmament beneath them shook:

B

Rapt by th' ethereal steeds the chariot roll'd;
Brass were their hoofs, their curling manes of gold.
Of heaven's undrossy gold the god's array,

Refulgent, flash'd intolerable day.

High on the throne he snines: his coursers fly
Between th' extended earth and starry sky,
But when to Ida's topmost height he came,
(Fair nurse of fountains and of savage game,)
Where, o'er her pointed summits proudly raised,
His fane breathed odors, and his altars blazed:
There from his radiant car the sacred sire
Of gods and men released the steeds of fire;
Blue ambient mists th' immortal steeds embraced;
High on the cloudy point his seat he placed;
Thence his broad eye the subject world surveys,
The town, and tents, and navigable seas.

Now had the Grecians snatch'd a short repast,
And buckled on their shining arms with haste.
Troy roused as soon; for on this dreadful day
The fate of fathers, wives, and infants lay.
The gates unfolding pour forth all their train;
Squadrons on squadrons cloud the dusky plain :
Men, steeds, and chariots shake the trembling ground:
The tumult thickens, and the skies resound.
And now with shouts the shocking armies closed,
To lances, lances, shields to shields opposed;
Host against host with shadowy legions drew,
The sounding darts in iron tempests flew ;
Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries,
Triumphant shouts and dying groans arise:
With streaming blood the slippery fields are dyed,
And slaughtered heroes swell the dreadful tide.
Long as the morning beams increasing bright,
O'er heaven's clear azure spread the sacred light:
Commutual death the fate of war confounds,
Each adverse battle gored with equal wounas.
But when the sun the height of heaven ascends,
The sire of gods his golden scales suspends