in which, to speak of nothing else, there are thirteen _s_-s to five in the original. Even Crashaw, whose translation of Strada's "Music's Duel" is a masterpiece for litheness of phrase and sinuous suppleness of rhythm, quails before the "Dies Iræ," and contents himself with a largely watered paraphrase. No one has ever yet succeeded more than tolerably with the opening stanza,-- "Dies Iræ, dies illa, Solvet sæclum in favillâ, Teste David cum Sibyllâ." The difficulty is increased where the Latin word has some special force of theological or other meaning which has no single equivalent in English. Doctor Coles has made, we think, the most successful attempt at an English translation of the hymn that we have ever seen. He has done all that could be done, where complete success was out of the question. Out of his first two versions, which seem to us the best, a very satisfactory rendering of the original can be made up by choosing the better stanzas from each. In his first trial he misses the pathetic force of the "Rex tremendæ majestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salva me, fons pietatis!" where the petition is piercingly individualized by the accentual stress thrown on the _me_. He gives it thus:-- "King Almighty and All-knowing, Grace to sinners freely showing, Save me, Fount of Good o'erflowing!" His second attempt is better:-- "Awful King, who nothing cravest, Since Thyself full ransom gavest, Save thou me, who freely savest!" Here the emphatic _me_ is preserved, but in neither version is the true meaning of _salvandos_ even hinted at, and in both we miss the tenderness of the _fons pietatis_, with which the _tremenda majestas_ is balanced and softened. There are three or four of these Latin hymns that for simple force and pathos have never been matched in their kind, and never approached, except by a few of the more fortunate poems of Herbert, Vaughan, and Quarles. We know not why it is that what is called religious poetry is commonly so bad. The thing gives the lie to both the adjective and the noun of its title. Anything more flat and flavorless, whether in sentiment or language, is beyond the conception even of an editor with the nightmare. Men have been hanged for more venial murders than some have been praised for who have choked out the immortal soul of the Psalms of David. We have, however, the consolation of thinking that the Devil's Psalter of convivial songs is quite as bad.