'Soothsayers, ah! how little do they know! Of what avail are temples, vows, and prayers, To quell a raging passion? All the while A subtle flame is smouldering in her veins, And in her heart a silent aching wound. * * * * * Now Dido leads Aeneas round the ramparts, to him shows The wealth of Sidon, all the town laid out, Begins to speak, then stops, she knows not why. Now, as day wanes, the feast of yesterday She gives again, again with fevered lips Begs for the tale of Troy and all its woes, And hangs upon his lips, who tells the tale. Then, when the guests are gone and in her turn The wan moon pales her light, and waning stars Persuade to sleep, she in her empty halls Mourns all alone, and throws herself along The couch where he had lain: though he be gone Far from her side, she hears and sees him still.' Of the merits of the present translation the reader will judge for himself; but it may perhaps be said of the usual objections urged against the Spenserian stanza--that it is cumbrous and monotonous, and presents difficulties of construction--that the two former criticisms will be just or the reverse, according to the skill of the writer, while it is quite possible that the last is really an advantage, for the intricate machinery imposes a restraint on careless or hasty composition. And finally we must turn a deaf ear, even to so high an authority as Matthew Arnold, when he says that it is not suited to the grand manner. When he said this he cannot have remembered either the lament of Florimell in the _Faerie Queene_ or the conclusion of _Childe Harold_. J. P. MAINE.