Perhaps we cannot better dismiss our subject than by saying, in the old-time fashion of comparison, that of these three translations Conington’s will probably be read for the story by those who know Virgil not at all; Mr. Cranch’s for its literalness by those who half know Virgil and are willing to know him better; and Mr. Morris’ for its very ingenuity of perversion by those who know Virgil so well that to see him in any new light, even a false light, only adds a fillip to their love for him.
ST. CUTHBERT.
Behold the shepherd lad of Lammermuir
Tending his small flock on the uplands bleak.
Alone he seems, yet to his young heart speak
Voices that none may hear except the pure.
His dreaming eyes—where duller souls, secure
Of earth alone, see naught—are quick to seek
Angels howe’er disguised; and week by week
The higher call within grows clear and sure.