The Sun.
London, England, 1850-09-07 00:00:00

'ersing

latcd by

THE COME DYricOk Ba nnF DANTE. Trans,
Paterman.
After the elegant and vigorous translation by Cary
of the Divine Comedy, it appears to us to be not only
rash but superfluous to attempt another English ver-
sion—more especially if the latter proves, on perusal,
to be very careless in its versification. This emphatic
dispraise we must in all truthfulness accord to the
labours of Mr. Patrick Bannerman—a circumstance
which we cannot but regret, seeing that those labours
have necessarily been voluminous. Hell, Purgatory,
and Paradise are alike flawed in this respect by the
slovenly manner of the rhythm, by the frequent
neglect of all rhyme whatever, and by the occasional
(and because occasional, the jolting) introduction of
the triple rhymes, such favourites with Dryden.
Either let us have the triple rhymes throughout—and
that would be eminently effective and in accordance
with the melodious original, as sung by the inspired
lips of Dante Alighieri—or no triple rhymes at all.
As the fittest token of the utter incapacity of Ur.
Bannerman to supplant his distinguished and accom-
plished predecessor, we give his version of the opening
canto of "Dell"
Half through our mortal life, myself I found
In a dark forest's will and rugged ground,
Where the right way was lost in shaggy wood,
A rude and savage woodland solitude.
The very thought still robs me of my breath,
And memory counts it littlo less than death:
Of good to treat, discovered in the wood,
IT tell of other things I understood.
When the true way was lest, the path forsook,
Of sleep so deep that moment I partook
That bow I catered I can scarce relate,
So dull the slumber and so dead its weight.
But when the mountain's feet my steps drew near
That closed the vale that filled my heart with fear,
Upward I looked, and saw its shoulders bright
Already with that planet's rays of light
That guides all others through each path aright.
The fear was then subsiding into rest
That shook the placid deptn within my breast,
All the night log so saddened and perplexed.
Like one who breathless issued from the waves
Turns to the waters he no longer braves,
My spirit, that still flies, turns buck to see
The pass that living man ne'cr trod but me.
My weary flame once more refreshed, I paced
The way along the de.ert ridge, and trac, d
The hindmost footstep ever deepest placed."
That, we take it will be amply sufficient to justify
the language of depreciation in which we have been
compelled to characterise the laborious performance
of Mr. Bannerman.

With

THE LAST of the ABENCERI?AGES.
other Poems. By Thomas Roscoe.
That legend of voluptuous Granada which Mr.
Roscoe has selected as the theme of his present grace-
ful effusion had its attractions for the refined annd
cele cul-
-
tivated mind of Chate4ubriand. It bas bee
brated moreover already in our prose literature by
the genius of Sir Bulvver Lytton, in whose elegant
romance of " Leila" are depicted in brilliant colours
the fall of Ahdallah and the triumph of Ferdinand.
The consummation, of the ever memorable conquest
of. Granada by the armies of Isabella, in a deed
of agsas•ination, is thus vividly depicted by theverses
of Mr. Roscoe :
" Wreathe, wreathe for Inc my myrtle crown,
I come, my love—my sword, farewell;
Sweet, lov'd land's hopes—all, aq thine own,
Thy angel guards my spirit well!