As an example of Sir Charles Bowen’s method we would take his rendering of the famous passage in the fifth Eclogue on the death of Daphnis: 

   All of the nymphs went weeping for Daphnis cruelly slain: 
   Ye were witnesses, hazels and river waves, of the pain
   When to her son’s sad body the mother clave with a cry,
   Calling the great gods cruel, and cruel the stars of the sky. 
   None upon those dark days their pastured oxen did lead,
   Daphnis, to drink of the cold clear rivulet; never a steed
   Tasted the flowing waters, or cropped one blade in the mead. 
   Over thy grave how the lions of Carthage roared in despair,
   Daphnis, the echoes of mountain wild and of forest declare. 
   Daphnis was first who taught us to guide, with a chariot rein,
   Far Armenia’s tigers, the chorus of Iacchus to train,
   Led us with foliage waving the pliant spear to entwine. 
   As to the tree her vine is a glory, her grapes to the vine,
   Bull to the horned herd, and the corn to a fruitful plain,
   Thou to thine own wert beauty; and since fate robbed us of thee,
   Pales herself, and Apollo are gone from meadow and lea.

‘Calling the great gods cruel, and cruel the stars of the sky’ is a very felicitous rendering of ‘Atque deos atque astra vocat crudelia mater,’ and so is ‘Thou to thine own wert beauty’ for ‘Tu decus omne tuis.’  This passage, too, from the fourth book of the AEneid is good: 

   Now was the night.  Tired limbs upon earth were folded to sleep,
   Silent the forests and fierce sea-waves; in the firmament deep
   Midway rolled heaven’s stars; no sound on the meadow stirred;
   Every beast of the field, each bright-hued feathery bird
   Haunting the limpid lakes, or the tangled briary glade,
   Under the silent night in sleep were peacefully laid: 
   All but the grieving Queen.  She yields her never to rest,
   Takes not the quiet night to her eyelids or wearied breast.

And this from the sixth book is worth quoting: 

   ’Never again such hopes shall a youth of the lineage of Troy
   Rouse in his great forefathers of Latium!  Never a boy
   Nobler pride shall inspire in the ancient Romulus land! 
   Ah, for his filial love! for his old-world faith! for his hand
   Matchless in battle!  Unharmed what foemen had offered to stand
   Forth in his path, when charging on foot for the enemy’s ranks
   Or when plunging the spur in his foam-flecked courser’s flanks! 
   Child of a nation’s sorrow! if thou canst baffle the Fates’
   Bitter decrees, and break for a while their barrier gates,
   Thine to become Marcellus!  I pray thee bring me anon
   Handfuls of lilies, that I bright flowers may strew on my son,
   Heap on the shade of the boy unborn these gifts at the least,
   Doing the dead, though vainly, the last sad service.’ 
      He ceased.