"Demeure, il faut choisir et passer a l'instant De la vie, a la mort, ou de l'etre au neant. Dieux cruels, s'il en est, eclairez mon courage. Faut-il vieillir courbe sous la main qui m'outrage, Supporter, ou finir mon malheur et mon sort? Qui suis je? Qui m'arrete! et qu'est-ce que la mort? C'est la fin de nos maux, c'est mon unique asile Apres de longs transports, c'est un sommeil tranquile. On s'endort, et tout meurt, mais un affreux reveil Doit succeder peut etre aux douceurs du sommeil! On nous menace, on dit que cette courte vie, De tourmens eternels est aussi-tot suivie. O mort! moment fatal! affreuse eternite! Tout coeur a ton seul nom se glace epouvante. Eh! qui pourroit sans toi supporter cette vie, De nos pretres menteurs benir l'hypocrisie: D'une indigne maitresse encenser les erreurs, Ramper sous un ministre, adorer ses hauteurs; Et montrer les langueurs de son ame abattue, A des amis ingrats qui detournent la vue? La mort seroit trop douce en ces extremitez, Mais le scrupule parle, et nous crie, arretez; Il defend a nos mains cet heureux homicide Et d'un heros guerrier, fait un Chretien timide," &c. Do not imagine that I have translated Shakspeare in a servile manner. Woe to the writer who gives a literal version; who by rendering every word of his original, by that very means enervates the sense, and extinguishes all the fire of it. It is on such an occasion one may justly affirm, that the letter kills, but the Spirit quickens. Here follows another passage copied from a celebrated tragic writer among the English. It 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:--