ype of the
untranslatable," says Frederic Harrison. Milton attempts the _Pyrrha_
ode in unrhymed meter, and the light and bantering spirit of Horace
disappears. Milton is correct, polished, restrained, and pure, but heavy
and cold. An exquisite _jeu d'esprit_ has been crushed to death:

W_hat slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours_,
C_ourts thee on roses in some pleasant cave_,
P_yrrha? For whom bind'st thou_
I_n wreaths thy golden hair_,
P_lain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he_
O_n faith and changed gods complain, and seas_
R_ough with black winds and storms_
U_nwonted shall admire_!
W_ho now enjoys thee credulous, all gold_,
W_ho, always vacant, always amiable_
H_opes thee, of flattering gales_
U_nmindful! Hapless they_
T_o whom thou untried seem'st fair! Me in my vowed_
P_icture, the sacred wall declares to have hung_
M_y dank and dropping weeds_
T_o the stern God of Sea_.

But let the attempt be made to avoid the ponderous movement and
excessive sobriety of Milton, and to communicate the Horatian airiness,
and there is a loss in conciseness and reserve:

W_hat scented youth now pays you court_,
P_yrrha, in shady rose-strewn spot_
D_allying in love's sweet sport_?
F_or whom that innocent-seeming knot_
I_n which your golden strands you dress_
W_ith all the art of artlessness?_

D_eluded lad! How oft he'll weep_
O_'er changed gods! How oft, when dark_
T_he billows roughen on the deep_,
S_torm-tossed he'll see his wretched bark_!
U_nused to Cupid's quick mutations_,
I_n store for him what tribulations!_

B_ut now his joy is all in you_;
H_e thinks your heart is purest gold_;
E_xpects you'll always be love-true_,
A_nd never, never, will grow cold_.
P_oor mariner on summer seas_,
U_ntaught to fear the treacherous breeze!_

A_h, wretched whom your Siren call_
D_eludes and brings to watery woes_!
F_or me--yon plaque on Neptune's wall_
S_hows I've endured the seaman's throes_.
M_y drenched garments hang there, too_:
H_enceforth I shun the enticing blue._

It is not improbable that the struggle of the centuries with the
difficulties of rendering Horace has been a chief influence in the
development of our present exacting ideal of translation; so exacting
indeed that it has defeated its purpose. By emphasis upon the
impossibility of rendering accurately the content of poetr