that do find publishers. They belong to a large class in which the
world cannot be brought to take any great interest--verses expressive of
various emotions, love, devotion, resignation, and so forth, which are
all uttered with fervor or with tenderness, verses graceful in style,
and in good rhythm, and which yet produce no great impression; while on
the other hand they are much above that sentimental or that sententious
twaddle which sometimes finds many admirers. It is sad to see so much of
this sort of verse published; for it is the occasion and the sign of
woful disappointment to persons of unusual intelligence and true poetic
feeling, who, however, have not in any great measure the poetic faculty.

--"Frithiof's Saga" has been often translated into English, and we have
here the result of one more effort to give us the great Swedish poem in
our own language.[23] The principal difference between this translation
and its predecessors is that this preserves the changing metres of the
original. It was undertaken chiefly because it seems the Swedes have not
been satisfied with the previous translations because they did not
follow the metre of the original. The reason is not a good one, and the
result of the attempt to conform to it is not very happy. There is no
question of pleasing the Swedes with a translation into English. It is
English ears that are to be consulted by what is written in English,
whether original or not. The Swedes have the original; that is for them;
the English version is for us. The effect of the many and great changes
in the rhythm and in the form of the verse is not pleasant to our taste;
and indeed we are inclined to think that the best translation of this or
of any other "Saga" would be into rhythmic prose, which embodied the
spirit, but did not simulate the form of the original.

--It is very unfortunate for what is often called American literature,
that almost all attempts to treat any part of our history poetically or
dramatically are miserable failures. Among the verse books before us two
are of this kind; one by Mr. George L. Raymond,[24] who has written in
what he supposes is the ballad form some things which are not at all
ballad-like, and which are dreary stuff under whatever name; and the
other a thing which Mr. Martin F. Tupper[25] seems to suppose is a drama
in blank verse upon the events of our war of independence. A more stupid
and ridiculous performance we have rarely seen. That it