not his own. You could not letter the volume "Chapman's Idyls," as you might "Pope's Iliad." If the reader will turn to our remarks upon Theocritus, he will perceive how successfully Mr. Chapman has realised, in the following passage, what we there pointed out; although the remarks may, probably, never have attracted his attention. "On a high hill a forest did appear: The brothers found there a perennial spring

Under a smooth rock, filled with water clear,

With pebbles paved, which from below did fling

A crystal sheen like silver glistering; The poplar, plane, tall pine, and cypress, grew

Hard by, and odorous flowers did thi ther bring

Thick swarm of bees, their sweet toil to pursue,

As many as in the meads, when spring ends, bloom to view.

There lay at ease a bulky insolent, Grim-look'd; his ears by gauntlets scored and marred:

His vast chest, like a ball, was prominent;

His back was broad, with flesh like

iron hard,

Like anvil-wrought Colossus to regard; And under either shoulder thews were

seen

On his strong arms, like round stones which, oft jarred

In the quick rush, with many a bound

between,

A winter-torrent rolls down through the cleft ravine."

Both of these stanzas are very vigorously and closely rendered. The word thew, employed by Mr. Chapman, primarily signifies quality, habit, &c.; in which sense it is used by Spenser:

"Home report these happy news, For well yee worthy been for worth and gentle thews."-Faery Queen. Shakespeare, however, in Hamlet and Henry IV., has it in the same sense as Mr. Chapman :

"Nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk."

These opposite meanings are very singular, and might be traced through many of the older writers. But to return. The request of Pollux to drink of the water having been refused, a challenge ensues; whereupon the enraged savage

"Blew a mighty blast. The long-haired Bebryces hearing the sound.

Under the shady planes assembled fast; And likewise Častor, in the fight renowned,

Hastened and called his comrades to the ground

From the Magnesian ship. With gauntlets both

Armed their strong hands: their wrists and arms they bound

With the long thongs: with one another wroth,

Each breathing blood and death, they stood up nothing loath.

First, each contended which should get the sun

Of his antagonist; but much in sleight That huge man, Pollux, was by thee outdone,

And Amycus was dazzled with the light;

But raging rushed straight forward to the fight,

Aiming fierce blows: but wary Pollux met him

Who fiercer battled, for the blow did fret him,

And, leaning forward, tried unto the ground to get him.

Shouted the Bebryces; and for they feared

The man like Tityus might their friend down-weigh

In the scant place; the heroes Pollux cheered:

But, shifting here and there, Jove's son made play,

And struck out right and left, but kept away

From the fierce rush of Neptune's son uncouth,

Who, drunk with blows, reeled in the hot affray,

Outspitting purple blood; the princely youth

Shouted when they beheld his battered jaws and mouth.

His eyes were nearly closed from the

contusion

Of his swoln face; the prince amazed him more

With many feints, and, seeing his confusion,

Mid-front he struck a heavy blow and

sore,

And to the bone his forehead gashing

tore.

Instant he fell, and at his length he lay On the green leaves; but fiercely as before,

On his uprising, they renewed the fray, Aiming terrific blows as with intent to slay."

But the efforts of Amycus were all in vain-the odds were, at least, twenty

a start

The fissile wild-fig flies far from his hands apart.

Collected for the spring, and mad to rend me,

So leaped the lion from afar : I strove With skin-cloak, bow, and quiver, to defend me

With one hand; with the other I uphove

My mighty club, and on his temple drove,

But broke in pieces the rough olive wood

On his hard shaggy head: he from above

Fell ere he reached me, by the stroke subdued,

And, nodding with his head, on trembling feet he stood.

Darkness came over both his eyes: his brain

Was shaken in the bone; but when I spied

The monster stunned, and reeling from his pain,

I cast my quiver and my bow aside, And to his neck my throttling hands applied,

Before he could recover. I did bear me With vigour in the death-clutch, and astride

His body from behind from scathe did clear me,

So that he could not, or with jaw or talons tear me.'

These three stanzas are exceedingly well done, and leave Polwhele in point of accuracy and truth at a great distance, although his version is highly animated and poetical.

"Thus the fell beast, high bounding from afar.

Sprung, with a sudden impulse, to the

war.

My left hand held my darts, and round my breast

Spread, thickly wrought, my strong protecting vest.

My olive club I wielded in my right, And his shagged temples struck with all my might;

The olive snapped asunder on his head; Trembling he reeled,-the savage fierceness fled

From his dimmed eyes; and all contused his brain

Seemed swimming in an agony of pain."

These are bold lines; but Mr. Chapman, with equal spirit, is infinitely nearer the original. In order to contrast these pictures with gentler scenes, we give an extract from the Thalysia. "Twas when Amyntas, Eucritus, and I, Did from the city to sweet Haleus hie; The harvest-feast by that abounding river

Was kept in honour of the harvest-giver,
By Phrasidamus and Antigenes,
Sons of Lycopeus both, and good men
these,

If good there is from old and high descent,

From Clytia and from Calchon, who knee-bent

Firmly against the rock, did make outflow

The spring Barinna with a footstruck blow,

Near which a thickly wooded grove is

:

Common the path, and common is the day.
We shall each other, it may be, content;
For I, too, am a mouth-piece eloquent
Of the dear Muses; and all men esteem
And call me good not that I deem-
Not I, by earth! Philetas I surpass,
Nor the famed Samian bard Sicelidas,-
A frog compared with locusts I beguile
The time with song." He answered with
a smile:-

This crook I give thee,- for thou art all over

An imp of Zeus, a genuine truth-lover. Who strives to build the lowly plain

upon

A mansion high as his Oromedon,

I hate exceedingly; and for that matter The muse-birds, who, like cuckoos, idly chatter,

Against the Chian minstrel toil in vain : Let us at once begin the pastoral strain; Here is a little song which I did late Musing along the highlands meditate; To Mitylene sails my heart-dear love,Safe be the way, and fair the journey prove.

Safe may my loved one reach the Lesbian coast,

And on the way be wind and weather fair!

With dill or roses will I twine my hair, Or on my head will put a coronet, Wreathed with the fragrance of the violet.

I by the fire will quaff the Ptelean wine, And one shall roast me beans, while I recline

Luxurious, lying on a fragrant heap
Of asphodel and parsley, elbow-deep;
And mindful of my love the goblet clip
Until the last lees trickle to my lip.""

In this passage, though one or two words might be changed with advantage, and the occasional inversions of language are inharmonious, the spirit of pastoral dialogue is agreeably preserved. The picture of Bombyce is drawn in very tender colours, and we

"Lovely Bombyce! though all men

beside

Call you a Syrian, sun-embrowned, and dried,

I call you a transparent sweet brunette.
The lettered hyacinth and violet
Are dark; yet these are chosen first of all.
For the sweet wreath and festive coronal,
The goat the cytisus, the wolf the goat,
And cranes pursue the plough, on thee I
doat.

Would that I had the wealth report hath

told

Belonged to Croesus! wrought in purest gold

Statues of both of us should then be seen,
Due dedications to the Cyprian queen!
Thou with a flute, an apple, and a rose;
I sandalled in a robe that proudly flows.
Lovely Bombyce! beautiful your feet
Twinkling like the quick dyce; your
voice is sweet,

But your sweet nature language cannot tell."

These extracts will be amply sufficient to shew the merits of this contribution to classic literature; but, in concluding, we cannot refrain from adding two or three briefer specimens, with which we shall make our critical exit. The idyl of Moschus, "To the Evening Star," is rendered with equal elegance and fidelity:

And is already set-Oh, much too soon! 'Tis not for impious theft abroad I stir, Nor to waylay the nightly traveller: I love; and thou, bright star of love! should'st lend

The lover light, his helper, and his friend."

The translation of Bion's "Elegy on Adonis" admits of improvement in two or three places; but the last of the following stanzas is very beautiful: "Come! in those vestments now array him,

In which he slept the livelong night with thee;

And in the golden settle gently lay

him

and let him be