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WILLIAM MUNFORD, the translator of the "Iliad," was born in the county of Mecklenburg, in Virginia, on the fifteenth of August, 1775. His father, Colonel ROBERT MUNFORD, was honourably distinguished in affairs during the Revolution, and afterward much attention to literature. Some of his letters, to be found in collections relating to the time, are written with grace and vigour, and he was the author of several dramatic pieces, of considerable merit, which, with a few minor poems, were published by his son, the subject of the present article, at Petersburg, in 1798. In his best comedy, "The Candidates," in three acts, he exposes to contempt the falsehood and corruption by which it was frequently attempted to influence the elections. In "The Patriots," in five acts, he contrasts, probably with an eye to some instance in Virginia, a real and pretended love of country. He had commenced a translation of Ovin's "Metamorphoses" into English verse, and had finished the first book, when death arrested his labours. He was a man of wit and humour, and was respected for many social virtues. His literary activity is referred to thus particularly, because I have not seen that the pursuits and character of the father, have been noticed by any of the writers upon the life of the son, which was undoubtedly in a very large degree influenced by them.

WILLIAM MUNFORD was transferred from an academy at Petersburg, to the college of William and Mary, when only twelve years of age. In a letter written soon after he entered his fourteenth year, we have some information in regard to his situation and prospects. "I received from nature," he says, "a weakly constitution and a sickly body; and I have the unhappiness to know that my poor mother is in want. I am absent from her and my dear sisters. Put this in the scale of evil. I possess the rare and almost inestimable blessing of a friend in Mr. WYTHE and in JOHN RANDOLPH; I have a mother in whose heart I have a large share; two sisters, whose affections I flatter myself are fixed upon me; and fair prospects before me, provided I can complete my education, and am not destitute of the necessaries of life. Put these in the scale of good." This was a brave letter for a boy to write under such circumstances.

Mr. WYTHE here referred to was afterward the celebrated chancellor. He was at this time professor of law in the college, and young MUNFORD lived in his family; and, sharing the fine enthusiasm with which the retired statesman regarded the literature of antiquity, he became an object of his warm affection. His design to translate the "Iliad" was formed at an early period, and it was probably encouraged by Mr. WYTHE, who per

sonally instructed him in ancient learning. In 1792, when Mr. WYTHE was made chancellor, and removed to Richmond, Mr. MUNFORD accompanied him, but he afterward returned to the college, where he had graduated with high honours, to attend to the law lectures of Mr. ST. GEORGE TUCKER. In his twentieth year he was called to the bar, in his native county, and his abilities and industry soon secured for him a respectable practice. He rose rapidly in his profession, and in the public confidence, and in 1797 was chosen a member of the House of Delegates, in which he continued until 1802, when he was elected to the senate, which he left after four years, to enter the Privy Council, of which he was a conspicuous member until 1811. He then received the place of clerk of the House of Delegates, which he retained until his death. This occurred at Richmond, where he had resided for nineteen years, on the twentyfirst of July, 1825. In addition to his ordinary professional and political labours, he reported the decisions of the Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals, preparing six annual volumes without assistance, and four others, afterward, in connexion with Mr. W. W. HENRY. He possessed in a remarkable degree the affectionate respect of the people of the commonwealth; and the House of Delegates, upon his death, illustrated their regard for his memory by appointing his eldest son to the office which he had so long held, and which has thus for nearly a quarter of a century longer continued in his family.

The only important literary production of Mr. MUNFORD is his HOMER. This was his life-labour. The amazing splendour of the Tale of Troy captivated his boyish admiration, and the cultivation of his own fine mind enabled him but to see more and more its beauty and grandeur. It is not known at what time he commenced his version, but a large portion of it had been written in 1811, and the work was not completed until a short time before he died. In his modest preface he says: "The author of this translation was induced to undertake it by fond admiration of the almost unparalleled sublimity and beauty of the original; neither of which peculiar graces of HoMER'S muse has, he conceives, been sufficiently expressed in the smooth and melodious rhymes of POPE. It is true that the fine poem of that elegant writer, which was the delight of my boyish days, and will always be read by me with uncommon pleasure, appears in some parts more beautiful than even the work of HOMER himself; but frequently it is less beautiful; and seldom does it equal the sublimity of the Greek." He had not seen CowPER'S "Iliad" until his own was considerably advanced, and it does not appear that he

was ever acquainted with CHAPMAN's or SOTHE BY'S. He wrote, too, before the Homeric poetry had received the attention of those German scholars whose masterly criticisms have given to its literature an entirely new character. But he had studied the "Iliad" until his own mind was thoroughly imbued with its spirit; he approached his task with the fondest enthusiasm; well equipped with the best learning of his day; a style fashioned upon the most approved models: dignified, various, and disciplined into uniform elegance; and a judicial habit of mind, joined with a consci

EXTRACTS FROM THE “ILIAD.”

THE MEETING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

To her the mighty HECTOR made reply: "All thou hast said employs my thoughtful mind. But from the Trojans much I dread reproach, And Trojan dames whose garments sweep the If, like a coward, I should shun the war; [ground, Nor does my soul to such disgrace incline, Since to be always bravest I have learn'd, And with the first of Troy to lead the fight; Asserting so my father's lofty claim To glory, and my own renown in arms. For well I know, in heart and mind convinced, A day will come when sacred Troy must fall, And PRIAM, and the people of renown'd Spear-practised PRIAM! Yet for this, to me Not such concern arises; not the woes Of all the Trojans, not my mother's griefs, Nor royal PRIAM's nor my brethren's deaths, Many and brave, who slain by cruel foes Will be laid low in dust, so wring my heart As thy distress, when some one of the Greeks In brazen armour clad, shall drive thee hence, Thy days of freedom gone, a weeping slave! Perhaps at Argos thou mayst ply the loom, For some proud mistress; or mayst water bring, From Mepsa's or Hyperia's fountain, sad And much reluctant, stooping to the weight Of sad necessity: and some one, then, Seeing thee weep, will say, Behold the wife Of HECTOR, who was first in martial might Of all the warlike Trojans, when they fought Around the walls of Ilion!' So will speak Some heedless passer-by, and grief renew'd Excite in thee, for such a husband lost, Whose arm might slavery's evil day avert. Rut me may then a heap of earth conceal Within the silent tomb, before I hear Thy shrieks of terror and captivity."

This said, illustrious HECTOR stretch'd his arms To take his child; but to the nurse's breast The babe clung crying, hiding in her robe His little face, affrighted to behold His father's awful aspect; fearing too The brazen helm, and crest with horse-hair crown'd, Which, nodding dreadful from its lofty cone, Alarm'd him. Sweetly then the father smiled, And sweetly smiled the mother! Soon the chief Removed the threatening helmet from his head, And placed it on the ground, all beaming bright;

entious determination to present the living HOMER, as he was known in Greece, to the readers of our time and language.

His manuscript remained twenty years in the possession of his family, and was finally published in two large octavo volumes, in Boston, in 1846. It received the attention due from our scholars to such a performance, and the general judgment appears to have assigned it a place near to CHAPMAN's and CoWPER'S in fidelity, and between COWPER'S and POPE's in elegance, energy, and all the best qualities of an English poem.

Then having fondly kiss'd his son beloved
And toss'd him playfully, he thus to Jove
And all the immortals pray'd: "O grant me, Jove,
And other powers divine, that this my son
May be, as I am, of the Trojan race
In glory chief. So! let him be renown'd
For warlike prowess and commanding sway
With power and wisdom join'd, of Ilion king!
And may the people say, This chief excels
His father much, when from the field of fame
Triumphant he returns, bearing aloft

The bloody spoils, some hostile hero slain,
And his fond mother's heart expands with joy!"
He said, and placed his child within the arms
Of his beloved spouse. She him received,
And softly on her fragrant bosom laid,
Smiling with tearful eyes. To pity moved,
Her husband saw: with kind consoling hand
He wiped the tears away, and thus he spake :
"My dearest love! grieve not thy mind for me
Excessively. No man can send me hence,
To Pluto's hall, before the appointed time;
And surely none of all the human race,
Base or e'en brave, has ever shunn'd his fate-
His fate foredoom'd, since first he saw the light.
But now, returning home, thy works attend,
The loom and distaff, and direct thy maids
In household duties, while the war shall be
Of men the care; of all, indeed, but most
The care of me, of all in Ilion born."

EMBARKATION OF THE GREEKS.
When with food and drink
All were supplied, the striplings crown'd with wine
The foaming bowls, and handed round to each,
In cups, a portion to libations due.

They, all day long, with hymns the god appeased;
The sons of Greece melodious pæans sang
In praise of great Apollo-he rejoiced

To hear that pleasant song-and when the sun
Descended to the sea, and darkness came,
They near the cables of their vessels slept.
Soon as the rosy-finger'd queen appear'd,
Aurora, lovely daughter of the dawn,
Toward the camp of Greece they took their way,
And friendly Phoebus gave propitious gales.
They raised the mast, and stretch'd the snowy sheet,
To catch the breeze which fill'd the swelling sail.
Around the keel the darken'd waters roar,
As swift the vessel flies. The billows dark
She quickly mounting, stemm'd the watery way.

Mr. PAULDING is known by his numerous novels and other prose writings, much better than by his poetry; yet his early contributions to our poetical literature, if they do not bear witness that he possesses, in an eminent degree, "the vision and the faculty divine," are creditable for their patriotic spirit and moral purity.

He was born in the town of Pawling,-the original mode of spelling his name,-in Duchess county, New York, on the 22d of August, 1779, and is descended from an old and honourable family, of Dutch extraction.

His earliest literary productions were the papers entitled "Salmagundi," the first series of which, in two volumes, were written in conjunction with WASHINGTON IRVING, in 1807. These were succeeded, in the next thirty years, by the following works, in the order in which they are named: John Bull and Brother Jonathan, in one volume; The Lay of a Scotch Fiddle, a satirical poem, in one volume; The United States and England, in one volume; Second Series of Salmagundi, in two

ODE TO JAMESTOWN.

OLD cradle of an infant world,

In which a nestling empire lay,
Struggling a while, ere she unfurl'd

Her gallant wing and soar'd away;

All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest! What solemn recollections throng,

What touching visions rise,

As, wandering these old stones among,
I backward turn mine eyes,

And see the shadows of the dead flit round,
Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound!

The wonders of an age combined,

In one short moment memory supplies;
They throng upon my waken'd mind,
As time's dark curtains rise.

The volume of a hundred buried years,
Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave,

I see the lonely little barque
Scudding along the crested wave,
Freighted like old Noah's ark,

As o'er the drowned earth 't was hurl'd,
With the forefathers of another world.

I see a train of exiles stand,

Amid the desert, desolate,

The fathers of my native land,

The daring pioneers of fate,

Who braved the perils of the sea and earth,
And gave a boundless empire birth.

volumes; Letters from the South, in two volumes; The Backwoodsman, a poem, in one volume; Koningsmarke, or Old Times in the New World, a novel, in two volumes; John Bull in America, in one volume; Merry Tales of the Wise Men of Gotham, in one volume; The Traveller's Guide, or New Pilgrim's Progress, in one volume; The Dutchman's Fireside, in two volumes; Westward Ho! in two volumes; Slavery in the United States, in one volume; Life of Washington, in two volumes; The Book of St. Nicholas, in one volume; and Tales, Fables, and Allegories, originally published in various periodicals, in three volumes. Beside these, and some less pretensive works, he has written much in the gazettes on political and other questions agitated in his time.

Mr. PAULDING has held various honourable offices in his native state; and in the summer of 1838, he was appointed, by President VAN BUREN, Secretary of the Navy. He continued to be a member of the cabinet until the close of Mr. VAN BUREN'S administration, in 1841.

Empire to empire swift succeeds, Each happy, great, and free; One empires still another breeds,

A giant progeny,

Destined their daring race to run,
Each to the regions of yon setting sun.

Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace

The fount whence these rich waters sprung, I glance towards this lonely place,

And find it, these rude stones among. Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round, The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long;

The stone, but not a word, remains;
They cannot live in deathless song,
Nor breathe in pious strains.
Yet this sublime obscurity, to me
More touching is, than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe;
They live in millions yet unborn,
And pious gratitude shall wreathe

As bright a crown as e'er was worn,
And hang it on the green-leaved bough,
That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks;

No one that loves his native land; No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can mid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear

Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round

Of нIM whose strange, yet bright career,
Is written on this sacred ground

In letters that no time shall sere;
Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew,
And founded Christian empires in the new.

And she! the glorious Indian maid,
The tutelary of this land,

The angel of the woodland shade,

The miracle of God's own hand,

Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeem'd the scourges of her race.

Sister of charity and love,

Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,
Dear goddess of the sylvan grove,

Flower of the forest, nature's pride,
He is no man who does not bend the knee,
And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock
To me shall ever sacred be-

I care not who my themes may mock,
Or sneer at them and me.

I envy not the brute who here can stand,
Without a thrill for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl her earth,
Or breathe Virginia's air,

Or, in New England claim his birth,
From the old pilgrims there,

He is a bastard, if he dare to mock

Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.

PASSAGE DOWN THE OHIO.*

As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide,
Oarless and sailless, silently they glide,
How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair
Was the lone land that met the stranger there!
No smiling villages or curling smoke
The busy haunts of busy men bespoke;
No solitary hut, the banks along,

Sent forth blithe labour's homely, rustic song;
No urchin gamboll'd on the smooth, white sand,
Or hurl'd the skipping-stone with playful hand,
While playmate dog plunged in the clear blue wave,
And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save.
Where now are seen, along the river side,
Young, busy towns, in buxom, painted pride,
And fleets of gliding boats with riches crown'd,
To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound.
Nothing appear'd but nature unsubdued,
One endless, noiseless woodland solitude,
Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be
As level and as lifeless as the sea;
They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone,
Heirs of the earth-the land was all their own!

"Twas evening now: the hour of toil was o'er,
Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore,
Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep,
And spring upon and murder them in sleep;
So through the livelong night they held their way,
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day;
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They cared not though the day ne'er caine again.
The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whisper'd it loved the gentle visit well
That fair-faced orb alone to move appear'd,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard.
Nodeep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt betray'd,
No lights upon the shore or waters play'd,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wanderers, man was nestling there
All, all was still, on gliding bark and shore,
As if the earth now slept to wake no more.

EVENING.

"T WAS sunset's hallow'd time-and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky: Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Where, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign.

*This, and the two following extracts, are from the "Backwoodsman."