A Double Somersault

—The advocates of Volapük have generally contented themselves with arguments drawn from the commercial advantages of this latest born or invented speech ; but an example of the use of the tongue in the anatomizing of a poem has lately come in my way, which seems to imply that by a process of transmutation one can discover what are the essential properties of poetry. The first of the poems printed by Dr. Holmes in The Professor at the Breakfast-Table is his wellknown Under the Violets. It happens that some one in New South Wales amused, or else perplexed, himself by rendering the poem into Volapük, with the outward form of verse, but without metre or rhyme. Dr. Holmes made the leap ; the New South Welshman performed the somersault. Then came a Nova Scotian, who had never seen Dr. Holmes’s poem, but had seen the Volapükian translation, and proceeded to carry the process one step further — shall we say backward ?—by rendering the version into English verse. Here was the final double somersault. I will not ask the members of the Club to follow me through the continuous acrobatic feat, but content myself with giving the first and last stanzas in each version, as follows : —

I.

THE ORIGINAL POEM.

Her hands are cold ; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light; —
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below ?
Say only this : A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.

II.

VOLAPÜK.

DIS VIOLS.

Nams binoms kalodik, logod vietik,
Pebs ofik no kömoms e goloms fovo :
Logs ofik pakikoms ta lif e lit ;
Plifolöd kloti äs nif su nif,
E pladolöd ofl kiöp viols floloms.
If ek pemotöl de bludot gudlikum
Osakom, “ Vilgin kiof läsof ? ”
Sagolöd atosi: “ Te bled müedik,
Kel esteifom flolön in nif, seistom
Pedeilaföl kiöp viols floloms.”

III.

ENGLISH ONCE MORE.

The hands are cold, the face is white,
The throbbing pulses fail to flow ;
The eyes are closed ’gainst life and light;
Enfold the robe like snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
If any, born of kindlier race,
Shall ask, “ What virgin lies below? ”
Say this : “ Only a tender leaf
Which strove to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.”