By _simplicity_, we mean, what flows from the heart; and there is no instance of any translator known to us, who has so entirely transfused the primitive spirit of an ancient work into a modern language; whose own individual habits and bent, if we may be allowed the expression, seem to be so totally annihilated, or to have coalesced so imperceptibly with his model. He is so lost in the contemplation of his author's narrative, that, in reading, we no more think of _him_ than we do of Homer, when he hurls us along by the torrent of his plan: no quaintness, no antithesis, no epigrammatic flourish, beckons our attention from its track, bids us admire or rather indignantly spurn the intruding dexterity of the writer. To have leisure to think of the author when we read, or of the artist when we behold, proves that the work of either is of an inferior class: we have neither time to inquire after Homer's birth-place or rank, when Andromache departs from her husband, nor stoop to look for the inscription of the artist's name, when we stand before the Apollo. Considering next the _harmony_ of numbers prescribed to the translator of a poet, Mr. C. himself allows that he has many a line 'with an ugly hitch in its gait;' and perhaps to those he acknowledges as such, and the copious list of others called forth in battle array against him, no trifling file of equally feeble, harsh, or halting ones might be added. Still we do not hesitate to give it as our opinion, founded on a careful perusal of the whole, that the style and the flow of his numbers are in general consonance with the spirit of the poem. In particular lines, he may be inferior to many; we even venture to say, that he has as often adopted or imitated the discords of Milton, as his flow of verse. The English Jupiter perhaps shakes his ambrosial curls not with the full majesty of the Greek; the plaintive tones of Andromache do not perhaps melt, or the reverberated bursts of Hector's voice break, on our ear with their native melody or strength; the stone of modern Sisyphus oppresses not with equal weight, or rebounds with equal rapidity as that of old; the hoarseness of Northern language bound in pebbly monosyllables, and almost always destitute of decided quantities, must frequently baffle the most vigorous attempt, if even no allowance were made for the terror that invests a celebrated passage, and dashes the courage of the translator with anxiety and fear. Still, if Mr. C. be not always equally successful in the detail, his work possesses that harmony which consists in the variety of well-poised periods,--periods that may be pursued without satiety, and dismiss the ear uncloyed by that monotony which attends the roundest and most fortunate rhyme, the rhyme of Dryden himself.