His “Essay on Criticism” will soon be known in France by the translation which l’Abbe de Resnel has made of it.

Here is an extract from his poem entitled the “Rape of the Lock,” which I just now translated with the latitude I usually take on these occasions; for, once again, nothing can be more ridiculous than to translate a poet literally:—­

   “Umbriel, a l’instant, vieil gnome rechigne,
   Va d’une aile pesante et d’un air renfrogne
   Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde,
   Ou loin des doux raions que repand l’oeil du monde
   La Deesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son sejour,
   Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a l’entour,
   Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine
   Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine. 
   Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent
   Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent,
   La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose,
   Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause. 
   N’aiant pense jamais, l’esprit toujours trouble,
   L’oeil charge, le teint pale, et l’hypocondre enfle. 
   La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d’elle,
   Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle,
   Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain,
   Et chansonnant les Gens l’Evangile a la main. 
   Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchee
   Une jeune beaute non loin d’elle est couchee,
   C’est l’Affectation qui grassaie en parlant,
   Ecoute sans entendre, et lorgne en regardant. 
   Qui rougit sans pudeur, et rit de tout sans joie,
   De cent maux differens pretend qu’elle est la proie;
   Et pleine de sante sous le rouge et le fard,
   Se plaint avec molesse, et se pame avec art.”

   “Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite
   As ever sullied the fair face of light,
   Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
   Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 
   Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome,
   And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. 
   No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
   The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
   Here, in a grotto, sheltered close from air,
   And screened in shades from day’s detested glare,
   She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
   Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head,
   Two handmaids wait the throne.  Alike in place,
   But differing far in figure and in face,
   Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid,
   Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed;
   With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons,
   Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. 
   There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
   Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
   Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,
   Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
   On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
   Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and for show.”