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.
Dr. Coles has done so well that we hope he will try his hand on some of the other Latin hymns. He cannot expect to satisfy those who have been penetrated by the almost inexplicable charm of the originals; but by rendering them in their own metres, and with so large a transfusion of their spirit as characterizes his present attempt, he will be doing a real service to the lovers of that kind of religious poetry in which neither the religion nor the poetry is left out. As we said before, to translate rhyming Latin without losing its peculiar tang is wellnigh impossible. Even Father Prout himself would be staggered by Walter Mapes's "Mihi est propositum" or "Testamentum Goliae"; but perhaps the spirit of the hymns is more easily caught, and Dr. Coles has shown that he knows the worth of faithfulness.
Mademoiselle Mori; A Tale of Modern Rome. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1860. Author's Edition. 16mo. pp. 526.