Auteurs du labirinthe, ou vous vous egarez. 
   Allez obscurement eclaircir vos misteres,
   Et courez dans l’ecole adorer vos chimeres. 
   Il est d’autres erreurs, il est de ces devots
   Condamne par eux memes a l’ennui du repos. 
   Ce mystique encloitre, fier de son indolence
   Tranquille, au sein de Dieu.  Que peut il faire?  Il pense. 
   Non, tu ne penses point, miserable, tu dors: 
   Inutile a la terre, et mis au rang des morts. 
   Ton esprit enerve croupit dans la molesse. 
   Reveille toi, sois homme, et sors de ton ivresse. 
   L’homme est ne pour agir, et tu pretens penser?” &c.

The original runs thus:—­

   “Hold mighty man, I cry all this we know,
   And ’tis this very reason I despise,
   This supernatural gift that makes a mite
   Think he’s the image of the Infinite;
   Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
   To the eternal and the ever blest. 
   This busy, puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
   That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
   Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
   Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools;
   Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
   The limits of the boundless universe. 
   So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
   And bear a crippled carcase through the sky. 
   ’Tis this exalted power, whose business lies
   In nonsense and impossibilities. 
   This made a whimsical philosopher
   Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
   And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
   Retire to think, ’cause they have naught to do. 
   But thoughts are given for action’s government,
   Where action ceases, thought’s impertinent.”

Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they are expressed with an energy and fire which form the poet.  I shall be very far from attempting to examine philosophically into these verses, to lay down the pencil, and take up the rule and compass on this occasion; my only design in this letter being to display the genius of the English poets, and therefore I shall continue in the same view.

The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked of in France, and Mr. De la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and Bayle have written his eulogium, but still his name only is known.  He had much the same reputation in London as Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion deserved it better.  Voiture was born in an age that was just emerging from barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant, the people of which aimed at wit, though they had not the least pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead of sentiments.  Bristol stones are more easily found than diamonds.  Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous, genius, was the first who shone in this aurora of French literature.  Had he come into the world after those great geniuses who spread such a glory over the age of Louis XIV., he would