’There is a noble Hymn in French, which Monsieur Bayle has celebrated for a very fine one, and which the famous Author of the Art of Speaking calls an Admirable one, that turns upon a Thought of the same Nature.  If I could have done it Justice in English, I would have sent it you translated; it was written by Monsieur Des Barreaux; who had been one of the greatest Wits and Libertines in France, but in his last Years was as remarkable a Penitent. [2]

’Grand Dieu, tes jugemens sont remplis d’equite;
Toujours tu prens plaisir a nous etre propice: 
Mais j’ai tant fait de mal, que jamais ta bonte
Ne me pardonnera sans choquer ta Justice. 
Ouy, mon Dieu, la grandeur de mon impiete
Ne laisse a ton pouvoir que le choix du suplice: 
Ton interest s’ oppose a ma felicite;
Et ta clemence meme attend que je perisse. 
Contente ton desir puis qu’il t’est glorieux;
Offense toy des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux;
Tonne, frappe, il est temps, rens moi guerre pour guerre. 
J’adore en perissant la raison qui t’aigrit: 
Mais dessus quel endroit tombera ton tonnerre,
Qui ne soit tout convert du sang de_ JESUS CHRIST.’

’If these Thoughts may be serviceable to you, I desire you would place them in a proper Light, and am ever, with great Sincerity,’

SIR,

Yours, &c.

O.

[Footnote 1:  an in first reprint.]

[Footnote 2:  Jacques Vallee Seigneur des Barreaux, born in Paris in 1602, was Counsellor of the Parliament of Paris, and gave up his charge to devote himself to pleasure.  He was famous for his songs and verses, for his affability and generosity and irreligion.  A few years before his death he was converted, and wrote the pious sonnet given above, which had been very widely praised and quoted.  In his religious days he lived secluded at Chalon sur Saone, where he died, in 1673.]

* * * * *

No. 514.  Monday, October 20, [1] 1712.  Steele.

  ’Me Parnassi deserta per ardua, dulcis
  Raptat Amor; juvat ire jugis qua nulla priorum
  Castaliam molle divertitur Orbita Clivo.’

  Virg.

  Mr. SPECTATOR,

’I came home a little later than usual the other Night, and not finding my self inclined to sleep, I took up Virgil to divert me till I should be more disposed to Rest.  He is the Author whom I always chuse on such Occasions, no one writing in so divine, so harmonious, nor so equal a Strain, which leaves the Mind composed, and softened into an agreeable Melancholy; the Temper in which, of all others, I chuse to close the Day.  The Passages I turned to were those beautiful Raptures in his Georgicks, where he professes himself entirely given up to the Muses, and smit with the Love of Poetry, passionately wishing to be transported to