These and other blemishes arrest the most casual glance. The merits of any work are harder to prove than its faults, though they are quite as deeply felt; and, as we have already intimated, it is the misfortune of Dr. Parsons that some of his greatest defects are in passages otherwise the most generally successful. There are probably few pages of the translation which do not offend by some lapse; but at the same time there is no page which will not command admiration by sublime and striking lines. We think the whole of the following passage from the thirteenth canto (it is the well-known description of the sentient wood into which the self-violent are turned) has a peculiar strength and dignity:-- "Amid the branches of this dismal grove, Their loathsome nests the brutal Harpies build, Who from the Strophades the Trojans drove With woful auguries erelong fulfilled. Huge wings they have, men's faces, human throats, Feet armed with claws, vast bellies clothed with plumes: From those strange trees they pour their doleful notes. 'Now, ere thou further penetrate these glooms,' Said my good master, 'thou shouldst understand Thou'rt in the second circlet, and shall be, Until thou come upon the horrid sand. Give good heed then: more wonders thou shall see, Yea, to confirm all stories I have told.' On every side I heard heart-rending cries, But not a person could I there behold: Wherefore I stopped, bewildered with surprise. Methinks he thought I thought the voices came From some that, hiding, in the thicket lay: Because the Master said, 'If thou but maim One of these plants, yen, pluck a branch away, Then shall thy judgment be more just than now.' Therefore my hand I slightly forward reached; And while I wrenched away a little bough From a huge bush, 'Why mangle me?' it screeched. Then, as the dingy drops began to start, 'Why dost thou tear me?' shrieked the trunk again, 'Hast thou no touch of pity in thy heart? We that now here are planted, once were men; But, were we serpents' souls, thy hand might shame To have no more compassion on our woes'; Like a green log, that hisses in the flame, Groaning at one end, as the other glows,-- Even as the wind comes sputtering forth, I say, Thus oozed together from the splintered wood Both words and blood. I dropped the broken spray, And, like a coward, faint and trembling stood." This picture, also, of the apparition of the angel who opens the gates of Dis is done with a hand as firm as it is free:--