Which Translation: The Odyssey

G. W. Edginton

1869 · Blank verse

Features

IntroNotesGlossaryIndexBibliographyMapsIllustrationsGreek textGreek line numbersLine-by-lineBy Iliad translatorComplete
19
Holdings
4
Reviews

Biography

George William Edginton was a Reading tradesman about whom little biographical information survives.

He translated the Odyssey into blank verse in two volumes, accompanied by illustrative notes and three maps. Aiming for readability while maintaining fidelity to the original narrative, he took the unusual approach of translating the entire poem into English hexameters, before abriding this into blank verse.

Edginton’s translation was compared favorably to Pope’s by the Reading Mercury upon its release, but received very limited attention overall, and is now one of the most obscure Victorian Homer translations.

Publication History

  • 1869 — Longmans, Odyssey; translated into blank verse; with illustrative notes and three maps ★

Reviews

The proem

1.1–11
Sing, Muse, of that deep man, who wander’d much,
When he had raz’d the walls of sacred Troy,
And many towns saw, many customs learnt,
And many griefs endur’d upon the sea;
Anxious to save his comrades and himself:
But them he sav’d not, though desiring it:
For through their rash deeds perish’d of that band
Those foolish men, who ate Apollo’s kine:
That god depriv’d them of return’s glad day.
Of these men, goddess, tell us too in part!

Penelope's weaving trick

2.96–111
Young men, my suitors, since my lord is dead,
Urging your suit remain, till I have wrought,
Unless false threads be dropt, this funeral robe;
For old Laertes, ’gainst the time whereat,
Fell death which brings long sleep shall take him off:
Lest some Greek woman blame me in this place,
If he, once rich, should lie without a shroud:
Our generous minds then listened to her words.
In day time weav’d she that large web indeed
But by the torches’ light unravell’d them;
This fraud for three years hid she, flattering still,
But when the fourth came, with revolving hours,
One of her maids who knew it told it us;
We then found her unravelling the robe,
And much against her will she finish’d it.

Calypso's double standard

5.118–131
“You gods are cruel, jealous over all,
Who envy goddesses to sleep by men,
Should one a husband openly espouse;
So when Aurora did Orion take,
The happy gods did envy him so long,
Till chaste Diana in Ortygia,
Did slay him with her mild and gentle darts.
And so when Ceres with Iasius
Mingl’d in bed and love, to calm desire,
In a thrice turn’d plough’d field, nor was’t long hid
From Jove, whe slew him with his red hot bolt.
So too, you gods now envy man with me;
I sav’d him, stretch’d astride upon ship’s keel,

Weeping on Calypso's shore

5.151–159
She found him sitting on the shore; his eyes
Still full of tears; all pleasant life consum’d
In grief for home, the nymph pleas’d him no more.
His nights he pass’d beneath compulsion too,
Beside her willing, he unwilling laid.
But in the day time haunting rocks and shores,
(With tears and groans disquieting his heart,)
He look’d o’er sea towards home, bath’d in tears.

Nausicaa finds Odysseus

6.127–141
This said, he then from out the thicket came,
His strong hand from the dense wood broke a branch,
A leafy branch to hide indecent parts:
He went forth as a lion bold in strength,
Who wind and rain braves; in their sockets too
His eyeballs glisten; he invades the folds,
Or chases wild deer, hunger urging him
Close homesteads unto, seeking out the flocks:
So one quite naked went Ulysses forth
To meet these maidens; strong need urg’d him on:
Discolour’d by the sea, he frightful look’d;
They fled in terror o’er the sheltering banks:
Nausicaa stood firm; for Pallas gave
Her courage, and took terror from her limbs:

War-widow simile

8.521–532
Of these great deeds he sung: Ulysses then
Grew pale, and copious tears bedew’d his cheeks:
Like as a woman weeps, around her lord,
Who shall have fallen in his town’s defence,
Warding off from its children slavery’s day;
Seeing him dying, gasping his last breath,
She shrieks thrown round him, while the foe behind,
Piercing through backs and shoulders with their spears
Lead men to slavery, sorrow, and to toil;
With saddest grief her cheeks then pine away:
So down his cheeks Ulysses shed salt tears;

Cyclops eats the men

9.287–299
He answer’d nought then from his cruel mind,
But on my comrades rushing laid his hands,
E’en two at once, like whelps upon the ground,
He dash’d them, then their brains made wet the earth,
He dress’d for supper, limb by limb torn up;
Then like a lion he ate them, nor left
Entrails, or flesh, or bones with marrow filled;
We, weeping much, did lift our hands to Jove,
Seeing these wicked deeds: despair seiz’d us:
When that his monstrous belly he had fill’d;
Eating man’s flesh; and drinking milk for wine;
He lay down in the cave between the sheep;

The Nobody trick

9.364–371
“Dost ask my name renown’d, O Cyclops? then
I’ll tell it thee: and do thou give the gift!
The name I bear is ‘NOBODY;’ they call
Me ‘Nobody;’ my parents and my friends.”
Thus spoke I; he with savage mind replied;
“Of all these, ‘Nobody’ I’ll eat the last;
The rest before him; this shall be my gift!”

Circe recognizes Odysseus

10.325–336
“Who? whence art thou? thy city where?
Me wonder holds; these drugs have charm’d thee not!
None other man this potion had endur’d,
Who let it pass the wall fence of his mouth:
But thou dost bear a counter charm within,
Cunning Ulysses art thou, who to me
By Hermes ever was foretold to come;
From Troy returning in his dark prow’d ship;
Come sheath thy sword and afterwards let us
Ascend to my soft couch, that we there join’d
In love, may lie in one another’s arms!”

Anticlea's shade

11.204–215
So spake she; and I thoughtful then desir’d
To take hold of my mother’s shade though dead;
Thrice I advanc’d and thrice to embrace her tried;
Thrice like to shadows or to dreams she fled,
From out my hands; I felt more poignant grief;
And spake these swift-wing’d words, addressing her;
“Why, mother, stay’st thou not for my embrace?
That ev’n in Hades in each others’ arms,
In lamentations we may both indulge;
Or hath the golden Proserpine this form
Call’d up for me that I may grieve still more?”

Achilles in the underworld

11.488–501
“Ulysses! do not comfort death to me!
I’d rather as a rustic serve for hire,
A poor man, wanting the good things of life;
Than govern those on earth once, but now here:
But tell to me news of my noble son,
Whether he went to fight in war’s front ranks;
Tell me, of good old Peleus, if thou’st heard;
If honor’d still by many Myrmidons,
Or if in Phthia they dishonour him,
Because old age holds both his hands and feet.
For I’m a staff to him no more on earth;
Being such as once upon the plains of Troy,
I slew the bravest, fighting for the Greeks:

The Sirens' song

12.184–192
“Ulysses, glorious Greek, arriving here!
O stay thy ship, that thou mayst hear our voice!
For none hath ever sail’d past this our isle,
Ere the sweet voice from forth our mouths he heard;
But he departs when charm’d; and knowing much;
For we know all things that in spacious Troy,
The Greeks and Trojans by Jove’s will endur’d:
And all things on the fertile earth we know.”

Hyperion's cattle

12.341–352
All deaths are sad to wretched men indeed,
But hunger’s death most piteous of all!
Come, driving off the best now of Sol’s herds,
We’ll sacrifice unto th’ immortal gods!
And if we should to Ithaca return,
We’ll build a shrine to Sol Hyperion,
And offerings make, both numerous and good:
But if he for his oxen, quickly wroth,
Should wish to wreck us, join’d with other gods,
Gulping the waves, I wish to die at once,
Not pine and waste upon a desert isle.”

Argos recognizes Odysseus

17.324–328
Thus speaking, he the palace entered now,
And went straight to the suitors through the halls;
But death’s dark fate took hold of Argos when
He saw his master after twenty years:

Sleepless Odysseus

20.25–34
As when a man turns many ways a paunch,
Well stuff’d with lard and blood, upon hot coals;
Eager that it be roasted very quick;
So pondering much, he turn’d himself about,
How to lay hands on those men void of shame;
Alone midst many: Pallas near him came
Descending: and beneath a woman’s form
Stood at his head, and spoke these words to him:
“Wherefore still watchful? most ill-fated man!

Stringing the bow

21.404–412
So did the suitors talk now, but the chief,
When he had prov’d the bow, turn’d every way,
Like as one skill’d in song and on the harp,
Extends with ease the cord round a new peg,
Twining the twisted sheep’s gut well both ways;
So did with ease Ulysses stretch the bow:
He then assay’d the string with his right hand,
Which sounded clear like to the swallow’s notes;

Odysseus reveals himself

22.1–8
Ulysses having stript him of his rags,
On threshold springs with bow and quiver full
Of winged shafts, and pour’d them forth now there
Before his feet; and to the suitors spoke;
“This trial stern of strength hath been achiev’d,
But now another mark by none yet hit,
Shall I try to attain, with Phoebus’ aid!”

The disloyal maids

22.465–474
The rope then fastening of a blue prow’d ship,
Round a large column of that arched court,
He threw it round them, high extending it,
That none might with their feet touch on the ground:
And as when thrushes with extended wings,
Or doves shall fly upon a net which stands
In shady thicket, entering a clos’d place;
And a sad nest receiveth them; so these
In order held their heads: round all their necks
Were tightened nooses, so that they might die
Most wretchedly; and now were they convuls’d
A short time in their feet, life left them soon.

The olive-tree bed

23.181–190
Tempting her husband thus she spake to him.
Ulysses troubled much then spake to her:
“This word s, O woman, bitter to my heart!
My couch who hath plac’d elsewhere? t’would be hard
For one with greatest skill, unless a god,
To place ‘t with ease within another place:
Not one of mortal men, e’en in youth’s prime,
Could move it readily; a great sign’s wrought
In that elaborate couch, none made but I!

Shipwrecked sailor simile

23.233–241
Like as when land to swimmers should appear,
Whose well built ship king Neptune on the sea
Might wreck, fierce driv’n by winds and foaming waves;
And very few have from the sea escap’d,
Swimming to land, and much salt is on them;
But glad they crawl on land, escaping death:
So gladsome was her husband then to her;
But from his neck she had not quite let go
Her white arms, and now rosy morn had shone