Many are called to translate French literary masterpieces, but few are chosen. Among the few wholly admirable versions of French classics produced by American poets of today are Richard Howard’s translations of Baudelaire, Marie Ponsot’s La Fontaine, and Richard Wilbur’s Molière. Mr. Wilbur, born in New York City in 1921, was initially inspired by a 1940s visit to Paris during which he saw a lively production of Molière’s ferocious comedy “The Misanthrope” directed by and starring the French actor Pierre Daix. In 1952, Mr. Wilbur received a Guggenheim fellowship to write an original verse play, which he was unable to accomplish. To better hone his skills in verse drama, he instead translated “The Misanthrope,” a version of which was eventually staged at the Poets’ Theatre in Cambridge, Mass., and off-Broadway in 1955, where it became a hit.

After Mr. Wilbur translated all the Molière plays which seemed likely candidates for English, he moved along to other great 17th century French writers such as Jean Racine (1639–1699), whose “Andromache” and “Phèdre” in Mr. Wilbur’s splendid versions are still in print from Harcourt. Now we have Mr. Wilbur’s new version of a particularly neglected play, “The Theatre of Illusion” (Harcourt, 132 pages, $12) by Pierre Corneille (1606–1684).

As with Molière and Racine, Mr. Wilbur’s Corneille allows him to explore other poetic voices while keeping a lucid attention to meter and rhyme. Mr. Wilbur’s use of traditional forms in his own poetry long made him unfashionable among America’s free verse poets. He also unwittingly attracted imitators who write in strict meters but without the loving warmth which radiates from his own work. This quality may derive in part from Mr. Wilbur’s secure Episcopal faith, a happy marriage which has lasted more than 60 years, and the contemplation of nature at his homes in Key West and an 80-acre wooded spread in Cummington, Mass. As much as any poet of his generation, Mr. Wilbur has taken to heart the famous command of W.H. Auden: “Teach the free man how to praise.” In a review of Mr. Wilbur’s “Collected Poems,” Jay Parini called Mr. Wilbur “heliotropic by nature” because he “leans naturally into the sun.”

However sunny he may be, Mr. Wilbur has endured harsh experiences such as serving during World War II as an Army cryptographer, excellent preparation for his later translation work. He saw three years of combat during the bloody invasions of Salerno, Anzio, and the battle of Monte Cassino. Such battle experiences are more naturally expressed in the frenzied coloratura of baroque French drama than in Mr. Wilbur’s direct expression of his daily life, influenced by his friend and mentor Robert Frost. Racine’s characters often wage hysterical verbal wars against one another, and even the joyous invective of Molière exudes aggression and violence.

The same is true for Corneille, although “The Theatre of Illusion” is an extremely peculiar play, akin to the seemingly endless baroque operas by middling composers like Johann Adolph Hasse which are interesting mainly because of bizarre instrumentation. “The Theatre of Illusion,” written in 1635 when Corneille was 29, is in five acts of diverse nature. The first act is influenced by pastoral love stories — the three following were termed an “unfinished comedy” by the author himself, whereas the last act gives every sign of being a tragedy until a last-minute switch restores a somewhat lame comic mood. The plot is convoluted, to put it mildly: A father asks a wizard for news of his longlost son. At first the son seems to find fortune, but then is killed. It turns out that the death has been staged, because the son is an actor. Ha ha.

“The Theatre of Illusion” lacks the heroic sweep of Corneille’s best work, such as “Le Cid.” Yet Mr. Wilbur lavishes wit on his translation, as in this couplet spoken by a maidservant who ridicules a cowardly soldier: “In terms less diplomatic / I’d say you fled in terror to the attic.” Concise, pithy rendering of difficult French verse is Mr. Wilbur’s trademark, as in the maidservant’s further reflection: “Women gain nothing by a jealous scene; / It only makes a man more libertine.” Sometimes Mr. Wilbur adds improvements, as when the braggart soldier is told, “Hush, blatherskite.” The literal French original is rather plain “Not a sound” (“Point de bruit”). Sometimes Mr. Wilbur’s couplets seem to be more forceful than the original, as in the following praise of the wizard: “Mysterious forces drive this old man’s heart, / And all his steps are miracles of art.” The original, less exact French rhyme reads: “des ressorts inconnus agitent le vieillard, / et font de tous ses pas des miracles de l’art.”

The faults here are few, and not Mr. Wilbur’s: Harcourt really should have included a minimum of notes to explain Corneille’s abstruse allusions to Greek mythological characters like Tithonus, Cephalus, and Enceladus, among others. This caveat apart, Mr. Wilbur’s “Theatre of Illusion” is a high-flying achievement indeed, well worthy of the previous work by this uniquely gifted, industrious, and beneficent poet and translator.

Mr. Ivry last wrote for these pages on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.