Ravit ces tendres fruits que l’amour fit eclorre,
Et qu’un leger duvet ne couvroit pas encore.
It is evident, that there is a complete evaporation of the beauties of the original in this translation: and the reason is, that the French poet has substituted sentiments for facts, and refinement for the simple pathetic. The nightingale of De Lille melts all nature with her complaint; accuses with her sighs the inhuman fowler, who glides his thievish hand into her nest, and plunders the tender fruits that were hatched by love! How different this sentimental foppery from the chaste simplicity of Virgil!
The following beautiful passage in the sixth book of the Iliad has not been happily translated by Mr. Pope. It is in the parting interview between Hector and Andromache.
Ως ειπων, αλοχοιο φιλης εν χερσιν εθηκε
Παιδ’ ἑον· ἡ δ’ αρα μιν κηωδει δεξατο κολπω,
Δακρυοεν γελασασα· ποσις δ’ ελεησε νοησας,
Χειρι τε μιν κατερεξεν, επος τ’ εφατ’ εκ τ’ ονομαζε.
He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms,