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that must die—

       And Joy, whose hand is ever on his lips,

       Bidding adieu,

      or when Mrs. Browning writes:

      … Young

       As Eve with Nature's daybreak on her face,

      the pleasure, both of sense and sentiment, is in each case derived alike from the music of the language and the beauty of the ideas. But in such lines as

      Arethusa arose from her couch of snows, etc.,

      or Coleridge's description of the river Alph running

      Through caverns measureless to man

       Down to a sunless sea,

      it is the language rather than the idea which fascinates. Professor Walker, speaking of the most exquisitely harmonious lyric ever written in English, or perhaps in any other language,[31] says with great truth: "The reader of Lycidas rises from it ready to grasp the 'two-handed engine' and smite; though he may be doubtful what the engine is, and what is to be smitten."

      It may be observed, moreover, that one of the main difficulties to be encountered in translating some of the masterpieces of ancient literature arises from their exquisite simplicity. Although the indulgence in glaring improprieties of language in the pursuit of novelty of thought was not altogether unknown to the ancients, and was, indeed, stigmatised by Longinus with the epithet of "corybantising,"[32] the full development of this pernicious practice has been reserved for the modern world. Dryden made himself indirectly responsible for a good deal of bad poetry when he said that great wits were allied to madness. The late Professor Butcher,[33] as also Lamb in his essay on "The Sanity of True Genius," have both pointed out that genius and high ability are eminently sane.

      In some respects it may be said that didactic poetry affords special facilities to the translator, inasmuch as it bears a more close relation to prose than verse of other descriptions. Didactic poets, such as Lucretius and Pope, are almost forced by the inexorable necessities of their subjects to think in prose. However much we may admire their verse, it is impossible not to perceive that, in dealing with subjects that require great precision of thought, they have felt themselves hampered by the necessities of metre and rhythm. They may, indeed, resort to blank verse, which is a sort of half-way house between prose and rhyme, as was done by Mr. Leonard in his excellent translation of Empedocles, of which the following specimen may be given:

      οὐκ ἔστιν πελάσασθαι ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἐφεκτὸν

       ἡμετέροις ἢ χερσὶ λαβεῖν, ᾗπερ τε μεγίστη

       πειθοῦς ἀνθρώποισιν ἁμαξιτὸς εἰς φρένα πίπτει.

      We may not bring It near us with our eyes,

       We may not grasp It with our human hands.

       With neither hands nor eyes, those highways twain,

       Whereby Belief drops into the minds of men.

      But Dr. Symmons, one of the numerous translators of Virgil, said, with some truth, that the adoption of blank verse only involves "a laborious and doubtful struggle to escape from the fangs of prose."[34]

      A good example of what can be done in this branch of literature is furnished by Dryden. Lucretius[35] wrote:

      Tu vero dubitabis et indignabere obire?

       Mortua cui vita est prope iam vivo atque videnti,

       Qui somno partem maiorem conteris aevi,

       Et vigilans stertis nec somnia cernere cessas

       Sollicitamque geris cassa formidine mentem Nec reperire potes tibi quid sit saepe mali, cum Ebrius urgeris multis miser undique curis, Atque animi incerto fluitans errore vagaris.

      Dryden's translation departs but slightly from the original text and at the same time presents the ideas of Lucretius in rhythmical and melodious English:

      And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy breath,

       Whose very life is little more than death?

       More than one-half by lazy sleep possest,

       And when awake, thy soul but nods at best,

       Day-dreams and sickly thoughts revolving in thy breast.

       Eternal troubles haunt thy anxious mind,

       Whose cause and case thou never hopest to find,

       But still uncertain, with thyself at strife,

       Thou wanderest in the labyrinth of life.

      Descriptive poetry also lends itself with comparative ease to translation. Nothing can be better than the translation made by Mr. Gladstone[36] of Iliad iv. 422–32. The original Greek runs thus:

      ὡς δ' ὅτ' ἐν αἰγιαλῷ πολυηχέι· κῦμα θαλάσσης

       ὄρνυτ' ἐπασσύτερον Ζεφύρου ὕπο κινήσαντος·

       πόντῳ μέν τε πρῶτα κορύσσεται, αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα

       χέρσῳ ῥηγνύμενον μεγάλα βρέμει, ἀμφὶ δέ τ' ἄκρας

       κυρτὸν ἐὸν κορυφοῦται, ἀποπτύει δ' ἁλὸς ἄχνην·

       ὧς τότ' ἐπασσύτεραι Δαναῶν κίνυντο φάλαγγες

       νωλεμέως πόλεμόνδε. κέλευε δὲ οἷσιν ἕκαστος

       ἡγεμόνων· οἱ δ' ἄλλοι ἀκὴν ἴσαν, οὐδέ κε φαίης

       τόσσον λαὸν ἕπεσθαι ἔχοντ' ἐν στήθεσιν αὐδήν,

       σιγῇ, δειδιότες σημάντορας· ἀμφὶ δὲ πᾶσι

       τεύχεα ποικίλ' ἔλαμπε, τὰ εἱμένοι ἐστιχόωντο.

      Mr. Gladstone, who evidently drew his inspiration from the author of "Marmion" and "The Lady of the Lake," translated as follows:

      As when the billow gathers fast

       With slow and sullen roar,

       Beneath the keen north-western blast,

       Against the sounding shore.

       First far at sea it rears its crest,

       Then bursts upon the beach;

       Or with proud arch and swelling breast,

       Where headlands outward reach,

       It smites their strength, and bellowing flings

       Its silver foam afar—

       So stern and thick the Danaan kings

       And soldiers marched to war.

       Each leader gave his men the word,

       Each warrior deep in silence heard,

       So mute they marched, them couldst not ken

       They were a mass of speaking men;

       And as they strode in martial might

       Their flickering arms shot back the light.

      It is, however, in dealing with poetry which is neither didactic nor descriptive that the difficulty—indeed often the impossibility—of reconciling the genius of the two languages

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