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Scotch Translation of Homer.

“ Faust, -leein' seer !--for ever croakin'ill,
Nae joy or blitheness do ye e'er fortell!
Gin ony gude ye ken, ye'll never say't,
But ill ye ever speak, and ever do't,” &c.


These and other reproaches were no doubt embittered by the recollection of domestic calamity ; for it was at the suggestion of this same Calchas that Agamemnon had sacrificed his daughter Iphegenia-He afterwards relates the fervour of his attachment towards his captive and


many powers of attraction, that his willingness to part with her to benefit his subjects might appear the more noble.


“ Sic charms are her's wham I sae dearly lo'e,
An sair it costs me-but-I'll let her gae
Princes, alake! hae mony an unkent pain;
Their people's waes-feel sneller than their ain!

This noble disinterestedness, however, does not prevent him from demanding a recompence for his loss, and Achilles, in no very courteous language, having exposed the meanness of his demand and the impossibility of complying with it, is answered by a threatening speech in which Agamemnon declares that he will take for himself the share of the spoil, which had been allotted to Achilles, or some other of the inferior chiefs.


Out spak the spankin son o' Peleus * then
An’turn'd him glunshin to the king o' ment :-
“ Upo' my trowth! sic sause I never heard :
Ye greedy kenna-what !--are ye no feard
The Greeks hereafter 'll refuse to do


or at your biddin'gae
Your uneo gate3-to harry fo’k o' night,
Or meet your faes by day in bluidy fight?-
I've surely been misleared whan I cam here
To dree your scowls sae mony a langsome year.
The men o' Troy, (puir chie did me nae skaith,
My kye aye grazed in peace an' horses baith;

* Achilles.

† Agamemnon.

Scotch Translation of Homer.


My craps might rot upo' the sunny brae
Afore they'd steal or burn a single strae :
(Big landward mountains sever us I ween,
An' mony a rairin' wave aye rows atween.)
We left our hames to rede your brither's wrang,
An' yours, ye saucy whalp !-we've staid ower lang;
Ower lang hae left our wives to greet alane,
An' get nae thanks for a' our bluid an' pain.

An' now ye say ye'll tak awa the spoil
Gien by my cumrads for lang years o'toil !

-Weel do ye ken, it's sma' an' sair, sair won,
Nae rives like yours frae ilka plunder'd town.
An' this is aye the gate: my han's do far
The greatest deeds o' this lang bluidy war :
But whan the gear's divided ye get maist;
The bonniest aye o' lasses and the best
While I (dear bought an’ sair altho' its been,)
Tak to my ships a prize—no worth a preen.
Weary an' dais'd frae every fecht I gang,
An' fecht for naething, tho' I've fochen lang:
I'll fecht nae mair!-I'll gang to Phthia hame,
An' steer my cruiket ships the way they came.
But, (tak my word for't) ye'll get never mair
Lasses to fecht about, or gear to share !”.

“ Gang gin ye like!” the king o' men replied,
“ Lang wad it be afore I bid ye bide :
There's mony left tho' ye should rin awa,
Wha’ll help me yet, an' Jove mair than ye a'!

Ye vile, ill-natur'd carle! I hate mair
Than a' the Heaven-sprang kings baith far an near :
Nought else but broils an' bickerins ye love,
An' brag o’strength gien tomi' brutes, frae Jove,
Gang back, I tell ye, to your snools at hame,
An' haud your gab to girn an' craw ower them,
I'll never prig to keep ye langer here. -
Gae !--scowl on them to wham your wrath brings fear:



Nae gear we'll get whan your strong arm we tyne!' Hech Sirs! sic threats! Now list a wee till mine:


Scotch Translation of Homer.

Sin' Phoebus * wants Chrysëis fair away,
To save my people's lives, I'll let her gae.
This day I'll send her owre the faemin' sea,
An' then I'll tak the bonny bride frae thee;
Mysel ! -I'll tak her withe han' o' power,
An' lea' thee lanely in thy bridal bower!
An' then ye'll see whilk's stronger o' us twa;
An' a'the lave tak warning frae your fa',
What awfu' skaith upon his head he brings,
That strives in council wi' the king o' kings.”+


Achilles is infuriated by these words, and the most tragical consequences might have ensued, had not Minerva commissioned by Juno, most opportunely made her appearance. By her advice the son of Peleus is induced to relinquish his first determination of slaying Agamemnon on the spot. His anger, however, is by no means pacified, and after very severe invectives against that prince, he forms the resolution to which we have already alluded, and on the adherence to which, in a great measure, hinges the chief interest of the Poem. 259. “ Such is my row

- Peace towards Troy I've sworn,
And sair that vow shall a' your warriors mourn:
Whan murderous Hector drives them ower the plain
They'll wis' Achilles back, but wis' in vain:
An' thou, proud chief, ower late retract your boast,
An, ken ye've wranged the bravest in your host.”

Sae fierce Achilles thun'ert out his wrath,
Syne dash'd his gowden sceptre on the yirth;
Nor less incens'd, the mighty king o' men,
Strove in his breast, 'tween pride and proud disdain,
Till Pylos' king, the glib-tongued Nestor raise :

(Sweet was his voice, tho'shrill thro’ length o' days) 249. The words, like hinney, drapped frae his tongue,

As, saft, and sweet, and sage, he thus begun-&c.

* Apollo.

† Agamemnon is frequently styled so by Homer.

Love-American Poetry.


O Love! thou softest passion of the mind!
(Whose wond'rous chains the willing captive bind,
Say why with eager haste we run to meet
Thy joys so painful and thy pains so sweet ?

Fantastic charmer! Shall we never know
Whence springs this mighty weight of human wo ?
Staves to thy powerto freedom born in vain,
We hate our Liberty, and hug thy chain..


AMERICAN POETRY. MR. EDITOR, The following verses appeared originally in the Franklin Gazette... and latterly in the London Courier. I send you this copy in the belief that the insertion of them in your Poet's corner, will gratify a number of your readers.

L. T. G.

“This world is all a fleeting show."

There is an hour of peaceful rest Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,

To mourning wand’rers given; And all is drear-but Heaven ! There is a tear for souls distrest, A balm for every wounded breast: There faith lifts up the the tearful 'Tis found above-in Heaven !


The heart with anguish riven ; There is a soft, a downy bed,

And views the tempest passing by, 'Tis fair as breath of even; The evening shadows quickly fly, A couch for weary mortals spread, And all serene-in Heaven ! Where they may rest the aching head,

There fragrant flowrs immortal And find repose-in Heaven! bloom,

And joys supreme are given; There is a home for weeping souls, There rays divine disperse the By sin and sorrow driven;

gloom, When tost on life's tempestuous Beyond the confines of the tomb

Appears--the dawn of Heaven !


Verses on leaving the Country for Glasgow College.



Fatigued with literary care- Ye towering spires and holy fanes, I sat at twilight grey,

Sacred to rites divine; My head Aung back upon the chair Ye stony vaults and grated panes,

I mourned the shortened day. Where guilt and misery pine;* Has summer then retired, said I, Ye glittering shops and crowded With all his gaudy train ?

lanes, Shall wintry clouds deform the sky, Where bustling commerce plies; And desolate the plain ? (A scene how different from these

plains :) Yes-winter's awful form is near, To you I turn my eyes.

For hark—the rattling hail Beats on my window ;- and I hear Ye antique towers and sable walls, Distinct the alternate flail.

Touched with time's mouldering The summer months in close pur- tooth; suit,

Ye ample courts and classic halls, Their rapid course have run;

Dear to the friends of truth; Now Autumn drops his mellow To you, with filial rev'rence meet; fruit,

My willing steps I bend; And asks what I have done. My ears your kindly welcomes

greet, Loosed from compulsion's galling grasp my, long lost friend.

cord, Youth soon neglects the page; I see your late deserted porch Hence memory blushes to record, Crowded with giddy youth;

A Student's summer stage. Science, display thy flaming torch, Ye rural scenes, dear to this heart, And point the way to truth.

In summer doubly dear ; Unclogged with blinded prejudice, Pure is the pleasure ye impart, At her shrine let me bow; No forced delight is here. From thee, great. God, I crave ad

vice, Ye groves, with scarce a faded My constant guide be thou.

charm, No more my steps will trace, And now my fancy's on the wing, Till May's glad sun pale nature And hurries me along; warm,

I hear the bell irregular ringAnd deck her with new grace. I join-the red gown d'throng.

* The Jail,

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