Pope, as it seems to me, rises to a level of sustained eloquence when he has to act as interpreter for the direct expression of broad magnanimous sentiment.

Classical critics may explain by what shades of feeling the aristocratic grandeur of soul of an English noble differed from the analogous quality in heroic Greece, and find the difference reflected in the "grand style" of Pope as compared with that of Homer.

But Pope could at least assume with admirable readiness the lofty air of superiority to personal fears and patriotic devotion to a great cause, which is common to the type in every age.

His tendency to didactic platitudes is at least out of place in such cases, and his dread of vulgarity and quaintness, with his genuine feeling for breadth of effect, frequently enables him to be really dignified and impressive.

It will perhaps be sufficient illustration of these qualities if I conclude these remarks by giving his translation of Hector's speech to Polydamas in the twelfth book, with its famous +eis oionos aristos amynesthai peri patres+.
To him then Hector with disdain return'd; (Fierce as he spoke, his eyes with fury burn'd)-- Are these the faithful counsels of thy tongue?
Thy will is partial, not thy reason wrong; Or if the purpose of thy heart thou sent, Sure Heaven resumes the little sense it lent-- What coward counsels would thy madness move Against the word, the will reveal'd of Jove?
The leading sign, the irrevocable nod And happy thunders of the favouring God?
These shall I slight?
And guide my wavering mind By wand'ring birds that flit with every wind?
Ye vagrants of the sky! your wings extend Or where the suns arise or where descend; To right or left, unheeded take your way, While I the dictates of high heaven obey.
Without a sigh his sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his country's cause.
But why should'st thou suspect the war's success?
None fears it more, as none promotes it less.
Tho' all our ships amid yon ships expire, Trust thy own cowardice to escape the fire.
Troy and her sons may find a general grave, But thou canst live, for thou canst be a slave.
Yet should the fears that wary mind suggests Spread their cold poison through our soldiers' breasts, My javelin can revenge so base a part, And free the soul that quivers in thy heart.
The six volumes of the Iliad were published during the years 1715-1720, and were closed by a dedication to Congreve, who, as an eminent man of letters, not too closely connected with either Whigs or Tories, was the most appropriate recipient of such a compliment.