greatly abridged by the suppression of more than one half of the stanzas in the original; but the translation, so far as it goes, is highly poetical. The translation of this song by Smollet, though inferior as a poem, is, perhaps, more valuable on the whole, because more complete. There is, however, only a single passage in which he maintains with Motteux a contest which is nearly equal:
O thou, whose cruelty and hate,
The tortures of my breast proclaim,
Behold, how willingly to fate
I offer this devoted frame.
If thou, when I am past all pain,
Shouldst think my fall deserves a tear,
Let not one single drop distain
Those eyes, so killing and so clear.
No! rather let thy mirth display
The joys that in thy bosom flow:
Ah! need I bid that heart be gay,
Which always triumph'd in my woe. Smollet.
It
