is Dryden, a poet in the reign of Charles II.--a writer
whose genius was too exuberant, and not accompanied with judgment enough.
Had he written only a tenth part of the works he left behind him, his
character would have been conspicuous in every part; but his great fault
is his having endeavoured to be universal.

The passage in question is as follows:--

"When I consider life, 't is all a cheat,
Yet fooled by hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on and think, to-morrow will repay;
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies more; and whilst it says we shall be blest
With some new joy, cuts off what we possessed;
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain,
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired with waiting for this chymic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old."

I shall now give you my translation:--

"De desseins en regrets et d'erreurs en desirs
Les mortals insenses promenent leur folie.
Dans des malheurs presents, dans l'espoir des plaisirs
Nous ne vivons jamais, nous attendons la vie.
Demain, demain, dit-on, va combler tous nos voeux.
Demain vient, et nous laisse encore plus malheureux.
Quelle est l'erreur, helas! du soin qui nous devore,
Nul de nous ne voudroit recommencer son cours.
De nos premiers momens nous maudissons l'aurore,
Et de la nuit qui vient nous attendons encore,
Ce qu'ont en vain promis les plus beaux de nos jours," &c.

It is in these detached passages that the English have hitherto excelled.
Their dramatic pieces, most of which are barbarous and without decorum,
order, or verisimilitude, dart such resplendent flashes through this
gleam, as amaze and astonish. The style is too much inflated, too
unnatural, too closely copied from the Hebrew writers, who abound so much
with the Asiatic fustian. But then it must be also confessed that the
stilts of the figurative style, on which the English tongue is lifted up,
raises the genius at the same time very far aloft, though with an
irregular pace. The first English writer who composed a regular tragedy,
and infused a spirit of elegance through every part of it, was the
illustrious Mr. Addison. His "Cato" is a masterpiece, both with regard
to the diction and to the beauty and harmony of the numbers. The
character of Cato is, in my opinion, vastly s