The Fourth Book of Virgil's Aeneid and the Ninth Book of Voltaire's Henriad
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Virgil and Voltaire >> The Fourth Book of Virgil's Aeneid and the Ninth Book of Voltaire's Henriad
THE FOURTH BOOK
of
VIRGIL'S AENEID,
and
THE NINTH BOOK
of
VOLTAIRE'S HENRIAD.
Translated into English verse with a view of comparison
between the Latin, French, and English poetry.
By the Translator of the HENRIAD.
PARIS:
PRINTED BY CH. CRAPELET.
1804.
TO
MONSIEUR DELILLE.
SIR,
After reading with infinite pleasure your masterly translations of
Virgil, I have been led into a train of reflection on the mechanism of
words, and on the manners, the ideas, and pursuits of Nations in as much
as they frequently give rise to the difference of character which we
remark in their language. Few literary discussions would I think be more
curious than an impartial comparative enquiry of this kind.
Not only have the easy elegance and courtly air of your verses displayed
the French tongue in these respects worthy of your original; but have
inclined me to think that they have raised it near the highest pitch of
perfection of which it is at present capable, in the translation of a
Latin poet. After two brillant ages of literature the French language
did not, till you appeared, possess one translation of the great
masterpieces of antiquity, which might fairly be said to have attained
the rank of a classical work: while the English had been long enriched
with such translations of most of them, as will like yours, in all
probability share the immortality of their originals. In the cloud of
critics which superior lustre necessarily attracts, many perhaps were
not sufficiently aware of the peculiar difficulties of your undertaking,
from the nature of the materials which you had to employ, and some not
candid enough to compare the work which you have raised out of them,
with what they had hitherto been made to produce.
That the English language might be so managed as to surpass the French
in expression of strong sentiments, in boldness of imagery, in harmony
and variety of versification I will not be sufficiently hardy to assert.
The universality of the latter must be admitted as a strong presumption
of its general excellency. Yet I cannot help wishing, that some pen
worthy to be compared with Monsieur Delille's would give the world an
opportunity of judging whether the former may not have some pretensions
to superiority in the instances which I have mentioned.
Besides the length of time which has elapsed since the production of
Dryden's translation, you will recollect with a sigh, as I do, his own
expression: "What Virgil wrote in the vigor of age, in plenty and at
ease, I have undertaken to translate," says Dryden, "in my declining
years, struggling with want, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my
genius, liable to be misunderstood in all I write.--What I now offer is
the wretched remainder of a sickly age, worn out by study and oppressed
by Fortune"!
It might not therefore be deemed sufficient to compare a work, produced
under such disadvantages, in the seventeenth century, (notwithstanding
the extraordinary powers of its author) with what is now becoming the
admiration of the nineteenth. Much less, sir, will it be just or candid
to suppose me capable of publishing my feeble attempt with any view of
comparison as to the merit of the performance.--Should it be asked,
what then could have been my inducement?--First, if I am fortunate
enough to excite others more capable than myself to try again the
comparative force of English language in a new translation, as you have
just shown how much can be done in French, I shall have obtained the
utmost bounds of my ambition.
Secondly, I am happy to acknowledge the pleasure which I felt an
employing some long moments of leisure, on a subject wherein your genius
had taken such delight: I hove chosen the fourth book as that which I
have had the good fortune of hearing in your own verses, with all the
charms of your own recitation; and have pursued this occupation.
Non ita certandi cupidus, quam propter amorem
Quod te imitari aveo----
I have the honor to be with great respect,
Your most obedient humble servant,
P. L.
PREFACE.
The motives and design of this attempt are sufficiently explained in the
foregoing address, the ideas which gave rise to it have been confirmed
and enlarged in its progress. As some apology for them, it may not be
improper to observe here, that the English language seems to owe a great
portion of that energy for which it is remarked, to the old Anglo Saxon
idiom, which still forms its basis. It was enriched and softened by the
introduction of the French, though some are of opinion that most of its
foreign words, were adopted immediately from the Latin and not from any
modern tongue: and this opinion is corroborated by the observation,
that, during more than a century after the conquest, very little mixture
of French is perceivable in the style of English authors. Be that as it
may, it is certain that the constant attention of its earliest writers
to the Greek and Latin models, though sometimes carried to excess, has
added grace, variety, and extent to its construction. Sir Thomas Brown
who wrote his _Pseudodoxia Epidemica_, or Enquiry into Vulgar Errors,
about the middle of the seventeenth century, and whose style is still
much commended, says in his preface to that interesting work: "I confess
that the quality of the subject, will sometimes carry us into
expressions beyond meer English apprehensions. And indeed if elegancy of
style proceedeth, and English pens maintain that stream we have of late
observed to flow from many, we shall, in a few years, be fain to learn
Latin to understand English, and a work will prove of equal facility in
either". Milton, both in his verse and prose, has carried this
affectation to such a degree, as not only to be frequently beyond a meer
English apprehension, but even beyond that of an ordinary proficient in
the learned languages. Yet, so far were these innovations from being
considered as prejudicial, that one of the most admired writers of our
days, Dr. Johnson, did not scruple to confess, that he formed his style
upon the model of Sir Thomas Brown. The great number of excellent
translations which were constantly appearing through all its progressive
stages of improvement, must naturally have given the language a
classical turn. It is scarcely possible that a work so extensive, and so
universally read, as Pope's admirable translation of Homer, should not
leave some gloss of grecism upon the idiom into which so many of its
greatest beauties had been transfused. At the same time the early and
proud independence of the middle orders of people in England, prevented
them from conforming their language, their manners, or their sentiments
to the model of a court. Whereby if their expression did not acquire
politeness from that quarter, it did not loose any of its strength.
While the energy which their language is allowed to possess is the old
inheritance of their Anglo Saxon ancestors, whatever elegance it may
have acquired, is derived rather from Athens and Rome than from St.
James's.--The varied and extended occupations of a maritime and
commercial people have increased the fund from which imagery in
discourse is drawn, and as all occupations in such a nation are deemed
honorable, no metaphor is rejected as ignoble that is apt and
expressive.
A number of ideas conveyed by monosyllables gives great force and
conciseness, but leaves the poet frequently to struggle with the
harshness of sound; nevertheless those who are conversant with English
poetry will have perceived that this difficulty is not always
insuperable. The different accentuation of the old Anglo Saxon words,
with those adopted from other tongues, affords uncommon variety and
emphasis to the numbers of English verse. The measure commonly used in
poetry of a higher style is of ten syllables, as that in French is of
twelve. Three English verses of ten syllables generally contain nearly
the same number of syllables as two Latin or Greek hexameters, but are
in most instances capable of conveying more ideas, especially in
translating from Greek which abounds so much in what seem to us
expletive particles. The _caesura_, or pause is not invariably fixed on
the same syllable of the verse, as in French; in the choice and variety
of its position, consists the chief art of appropriate harmony.
Accentuation of syllables, which seems, to answer the idea of long and
short syllables in the dead languages, is the foundation of English,
metre.--Tripple rhymes used with judgment have been admitted by the best
English poets, and now and then the introduction of an Alexandrine, or
verse of six feet.
Though blank verse has still many admirers, the English ear is grown
remarkably delicate as to the consonance of rhymes; Dryden and Pope have
used many, which would not now be received. Masculine and feminine
rhymes are unknown in English. As the character of a language appears to
be the result of all the affections of the people who speak it, it did
not seem foreign to this design to compare the manner in which two such
great genius's as Virgil and Voltaire, have treated the same subject,
and to place the loves of Henry and Gabrielle in comparison with those
of AEneas and Dido. The elegance, the delicacies, the nicest touches of
refined gallantry come admirably forward with the brillant colouring,
the light and graceful pencil of Voltaire. The verse seems to flow from
his pen without effort into its natural channel, and some of his
descriptions would not loose by a comparison; but perhaps he has let it
be seen, that it would not be so easy a task to convey in the same
language the exquisite and deep strokes of passion, which the Roman
master has left to the admiration of the universe. To which of these
styles the English and the French languages are most fitted, and how far
they may be made to succeed in both, is one of the objects of an inquiry
which this undertaking was intended to promote.
Whatever can be said by way of comment on the fourth book of the AEneid
has been so often repeated, and is so easily to be met with, that it was
thought needless to add any notes to this new translation. The few
instances in which there may appear some difference in the
interpretation of the original are scarce worth noticing. One perhaps
may appear to require some apology; most of the translators of Virgil
have represented Dido under the most violent impression of rage in her
first speech to AEneas. Whereas it would seem that the situation of her
mind is meant to be described before she addresses him, rather as wild
and frantic with doubt and fear, than actuated by rage. Whatever anger
she may feel, is yet so much tempered by love and hope, that she breaks
out, not into the language of rage, but of the most tender
expostulation, the most lively interest in his own welfare, the most
pathetic painting of her feelings and situation. It is a beautiful
appeal to love, to honor, and to pity. Not till after his cold answer,
does she burst into all the violence of rage, of contempt, and of
despair. This gradation has often been remarked as a principal beauty.
As some excuse for the coldness of AEneas which takes away so much of the
interest of the poem, Virgil is careful to recoil continually to our
attention, that he is acting under the impulse of the divinity. Such has
been the constant practice of the ancients to prevent our disgust, for
the action which they represent. In Orestes and Phoedra it is the excuse
of the violence of passion, in AEneas of that coldness which we find it
so difficult to forgive, but which in this point of view we shall be
inclined to pity.
While these sheets were in the press MONSIEUR DELILLE has given the
world another proof of the powers of his mind, and displayed the French
language to vast advantage, in a more arduous strain of poetry that it
had yet attempted. The perspicuity for which it has always been
remarked, and to which it owes its charms in conversation as perhaps
also the dificulty with which it is adapted to works of poetical
imagination, is strongly exemplified in his translation of Paradise
Lost. If he has not always been able to make the french idiom bear him
through the aetherial regions in which the daring wing of Milton's muse
soars with so sublime a flight, he has descended not without dignity to
the sphere of human understanding. And I believe it may be safely
advanced, that it will be easier for ordinary capacities, even among
English readers, to understand the work of Milton, in this translation
than in the original.
* * * * *
ARGUMENT.
AEneas, after escaping from the destruction of Troy and a long series of
adventures by sea and land, is driven by a storm raised by the hatred of
Juno on the coast of Affrica, where he is received by Dido, in the new
town of Carthage, which she was building, after her flight from the
cruelty of her brother in law Pigmalion, who had murdered her husband
Sicheus.--Venus dreading for her son AEneas, the influence of Juno upon
the mind of Dido, makes Cupid assume the forme of his child Julus or
Ascanius, and raise in the bosom of the Queen the most ungovernable
passion for AEneas. The fourth book begins by Dido's confessing her
weakness to her sister Anna, who gives her many plausible reasons for
indulging it, and advices her to make her peace with heaven and marry
her lover. Juno, finding herself outwitted by Venus and her favourite
Dido irrecoverably in love, accosts Venus first in a sarcastic tone but
afterwards in very persuasive language, endeavours in her turn to
deceive her, by obtaining her content to the marriage, by which means to
frustrate the fates which promised the empire of the world to the
descendants of AEneas in Italy. Venus, aware of the deceit, appears in a
very complimentary style to give into it, and consents to her projects.
While the Tyrian princess and the Trojan are hunting in a forest Juno
sends down a violent storm, and the Queen and AEneas take shelter alone
in a dark cavern.--There Juno performed the nuptial rite and the passion
of Dido was reconciled to her conscience.--Fame soon spreads the report
of this alliance.--Iarba, one of Dido's suitors, hears of it and
addresses an angry prayer to Jupiter Ammon from whom he was descended.
Jove sends down Mercury to order AEneas to leave Carthage. Dido
endeavours to make him alter this terrible resolution, falls into the
most violent paroxism of rage at his cold refusal, again melts into
tenderness, employs her sister to prevail upon AEneas, at least, to wait
till the wintry storms were past. All is in vain, and Dido resolved to
die, deceives her sister with an idea of magic rites to get rid of her
passion--and persuades her to raise a funeral pyle in her palace, AEneas
a second time admonished by Mercury sets sail; when Dido, at the break
of day, beholds his vessels out of reach she again bursts into a violent
fit of passion, but soon sinks into despair.--Accuses her sister's fatal
kindness, upbraids herself with her infidelity to the memory of Sicheus,
vents the most dreadful imprecations against AEneas and the Romans, who
were to be his ascendants, bequeaths all her hatred to her subjects,
than relaxes into a momentary tenderness at the sight of the nuptial
bed, the cloaths and pictures of AEneas which she had placed on the
funeral pyre, and at last puts an end to her life with the sword of her
faithless lover.
THE FOURTH BOOK
OF
VIRGIL'S AENEID,
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE.
While Dido, now with rising cares opprest,
Indulg'd the pain; the flame within her breast
In silence prey'd, and burn'd in every vein.
Fix'd in her heart, his voice, his form remain;
5 Still would her thought the Hero's fame retrace,
Her fancy feed upon his heav'nly race:
Care to her wearied frame gives no repose,
Her anxious night no balmy slumber knows;
And scarce the morn, in purple beams array'd,
10 Chas'd from the humid pole the ling'ring shade,
Her sister, fond companion of her thought,
Thus in the anguish of her soul she sought.
Dear Anna, tell me, why this broken rest?
What mean these boding thoughts? who is this guest,
15 This lovely stranger that adorns our court?
How great his mein! and what a godlike port!
It must be true, no idle voice of Fame,
From heav'n, I'm sure, such forms, such virtue came.
} Degenerate spirits are by fear betray'd,
20 } His soul, alas, what fortunes have essay'd;
} What feats of war!--and in what words convey'd!
Were it not fix'd, determin'd in my mind,
That me no more the nuptial tye shall bind,
Since Death deceiv'd the first fond flame I knew:
25 Were Hymen's rites less odious to my view,
To this one fault perhaps I might give way;
For must I own it? Anna since the day
Sicheus fell, (that day a brother's guilt,
A brother's blood upon our altars spilt);
30 He, none but he, my feelings could awake,
Or with one doubt my wav'ring bosom shake.
Yes! these are symptoms of my former flame;
But sooner thro' her very inmost frame,
May gaping Earth my sinking feet betray;
35 Jove's light'ning blast me from this vital ray
To Hell's pale shade, and Night's eternal reign,
Ere, sacred Honor, I thy rite profane.
Oh, no! to whom my virgin faith I gave,
"Twas his, and his remains within the grave".
40 She ceas'd--but down her bosom gush'd her tears.
"O dearer than the genial ray that cheers",
Her sister cry'd, shall lonely grief consume,
Lost to the joys of love your beauties bloom,
Lost to the joys, maternal feelings share?
45 Do shades for this, do buried ashes care?
That new in grief no lover should succeed,
Tyrians in vain, in vain Iarba plead;
That every chief of Afric's wide domain,
In triumphs proud, should learn to sue in vain;
50 'Twas well; but why a mutual flame withstand?
Can you forget who owns this hostile land?
Unconquer'd Getulans your walls surround,
The Syri untam'd, the wild Numidian bound.
Thro' the wide desert fierce Barceans roam:
55 Why need I mention from our former home,
The deadly war, a brother's threats prepare?
For me, I think, that Juno's fost'ring care,
Some god auspicious, rais'd the winds that bore
Those Phrygian vessels to our Lybian shore.
60 Their godlike chief should happy Dido wed,
How would her walls ascend, her empire spread?
Join'd by the arms of Troy, with such allies,
Think to what height will Punic glory rise.
Win but the gods, their sacred off'rings pay;
65 Detain your guest; invent some fond delay.
See low'ring tempests o'er the ocean ply,
The shatter'd vessels, the inclement sky".
Each word that dropt inflam'd her burning mind,
And all her wav'ring soul to love inclin'd;
70 New gleams of hope in Dido's bosom play,
And Honor's bright idea fades away.
Fain would the sisters now, by gift and pray'r,
With heav'n seduc'd, the conscious error share.
At ev'ry shrine, the fav'ring gods to gain,
75 In order due are proper victims slain;
To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Light,
And Juno most, who tends the nuptial rite.
Herself the goblet lovely Dido bears,
Her graceful arm the sacred vessel rears;
80 And where the horns above the forehead join,
Upon the snow-white heifer pours the wine:
Before the god with awful grace she bows,
Moves round the altar rich with daily vows,
Hangs o'er the victim, in its bosom pries,
85 And through the breathing entrail darts her eyes.
Vain cares, alas! and rites too fondly paid!
The tortur'd soul, can vows, can altars aid?
Weak boast of priests, and ineffectual pray'rs!
In her own heart, unknown, her fate she bears.
90 The pleasing flame upon her vitals feeds,
The silent wound within her bosom bleeds.
She raves, she burns, and with uncertain mind,
Roams o'er the town; roams like the wounded hind,
Whom in the woods, unconscious of his deed,
95 The hunter pierc'd, and left the trembling reed;
O'er woods, o'er quaries, from the pain she springs,
While in her flank the deadly arrow clings.
} So with AEneas love-sick Dido strays,
100 } Points to her town, her Tyrian wealth displays,
} While ev'ry look her longing soul betrays;
And fain her lips would tell the fond desire,
But scarce begun--the trembling words expire:
--When later hours convivial pleasure bring,
Then back to Troy, her thoughts impatient spring,
105 The well known story still enchants her ears,
She hangs enamour'd on each word she hears:
But when the moon with paler splendor glows,
When stars descending counsel sweet repose,
In the deserted hall, alone she mourns;
110 Each word, each look, upon her soul returns,
She sees him absent, hears him o'er again,
Presses the happy couch where he had lain;
Or with the father's rising form beguil'd,
Deludes her flame, and clasps the lovely child.
115 Each other care her burning thoughts refuse,
In arms no more her Tyrian youth she views;
No spreading moles the boistrous tide command;
The tow'rs, the forts, begun, unfinish'd stand:
The mighty structure threat'ning from on high
120 Hangs interrupted--all inactive lie
Unbrac'd,--the vast machines that thro' the air,
Lab'ring, the pond'rous mass, aloft, suspended bear.
When Juno view'd the tumult in her breast,
That Fame with Passion could no more contest,
She sought the Cyprian queen, "What praise, what fame"
126 She cried, "what glorious triumph you may claim,
What high renown, for you and for your son!
Two mighty gods--one woman have undone!
I'm not deceiv'd, I know what jealous hate
130 Our rising walls and Punic pow'r create;
To what extreme, what purpose will it tend?
Why may not peace and nuptial union end
This dire debate?----You've gain'd your utmost aim;
Thro' every fibre Dido feels the flame;
135 She doats, she burns;--then let the nuptial rite,
At once the people, and the chiefs, unite,
And both the nations be alike our care;
The sceptre let the Phrygian husband bear,
And take my Tyrians for the nuptial dow'r".
140 Venus who saw how much the Latian pow'r;
The promised empire in the Trojan line
Alarm'd the goddess, felt her false design,
But smiling said, "Who madly would refuse
Such offers--and eternal warfare choose?
145 Would Fortune friendly on our project wait.
But doubts within my mind arise, if Fate
And Jove allow, that, with the sons of Troy,
The Tyrian race one empire should enjoy,
The people mingled, and their rites combin'd.
150 'Tis yours; his queen, to try the thund'rer's mind;
Mine to obey"--"Be that my care," replied
Jove's sister Queen--"Now hear what I provide:
To-morrow, when the rising lamp of day
Shoots o'er the humid orb its golden ray,
155 Unhappy Dido and her guest of Troy
Together in the woods the chase enjoy,
When ev'ry mind is on the sport intent,
From gather'd clouds with livid light'ning rent,
Of rain and pelting hail, a horrid show'r,
160 With peals of thunder on their heads I'll poor:
All fly the storm, and in one dark retreat,
The Trojan hero, and the Queen shall meet;
There will I be; there if unchang'd your mind,
Shall Hymen's chain at once the lovers bind".
165 The Queen of love perceiv'd her false intent,
Smil'd at the smooth deceit, and bow'd assent.
Aurora now her wat'ry couch forsakes,
The chosen youth her earliest beam awakes,
The bounding steed, the highly scented hound,
170 Nets, toils, and spears, the palace court surround.
A favour'd band within the royal gate,
The Queen who still delay'd, respectful wait.
In purple trapping, burnish'd gold array'd,
Proud on the foaming bit, her courser play'd;
175 She comes; the court her graceful steps surround;
Her Tyrian vest, embroider'd fringes bound;
Her quiver gold, with gold her hair enlac'd,
A golden clasp her flowing mantle brac'd.
Next with his Phrygian youth Iulus came
180 On wings of joy; but charms divine proclaim
Cythereas offspring as he join'd the train.