To

Yes! I remember well our meeting,
When first thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.

By weary agonies surrounded,

'Mid toil, 'mid mean and noisy care,
Long in mine ear thy soft voice sounded,
Long dream'd I of thy features fair,

Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger,
Scattering mine early dreams to air,
And thy soft voice I heard no longer-
No longer saw thy features fair.

In exile's silent desolation

Slowly dragg'd on the days for me-
Orphan'd of life, of inspiration,

Of tears, of love, of deity.

I woke once more my heart was beating-
Once more thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.

My heart has found its consolation
All has revived once more for me
And vanish'd life, and inspiration,
And tears, and love, and deity.

The versification of the following little poem is founded on a system which Pushkin seems to have looked upon with peculiar favour, as he has employed the same metrical arrangement in by far the largest proportion of his poetical works. So gracefully and so easily, indeed, has he wielded this metre, and with so flexible, so delicate, and so masterly a hand, that we could not refrain from attempting to imitate it in our English version; for we considered that it is impossible to say how much of the peculiar character of a poet's writings depends upon the colouring, or rather the touch-if we may borrow a phrase from the vocabulary of the critic in painting-of the metre. Undoubtedly a poet is the best judge not only of the kind, but of the degree of the effect which he wishes to produce upon his reader; and there may be, between the thoughts which he desires to embody, and the peculiar harmonies in which he may determine to clothe those thoughts, analogies and sympathies too delicate for our grosser ears; or, at least, if not too subtle and refined for our ears to perceive, yet far too delicate for us to define, or exactly to appreciate. Moved by this reasoning, we have always preferred to follow, as nearly as we could, the exact versification, and even the most minute varieties of tone and metrical accentuation. Inattention to this point is undoubtedly the stumblingblock of translators in general; of the dangerous consequences of such inattention, it is not necessary to give any elaborate proof. How much, we may ask, does not the poetry of Dante, for instance, lose, by being despoiled of that great source of its peculiar effect springing from the employment of the terza rima! It is in vain to say, that it is enormously difficult to produce the

terza rima in English. To translate the "gran padre Alighier" into English worthily, the terza rima must be employed,. whatever be the obstacles presented by the dissimilarities existing between the Italian and English languages.

THE MOB.

"Procul este, profani!

A Poet o'er his glowing lyre

A wild and careless hand had flung.
The base, cold crowd, that nought admire,
Stood round, responseless to his fire,
With heavy eye and mocking tongue.

"And why so loudly is he singing?"
('Twas thus that idiot mob replied,)
His music in our ears is ringing;
But whither flows that music's tide?
What doth it teach? His art is madness!
He moves our soul to joy or sadness.
A wayward necromantic spell!

Free as the breeze his music floweth,

But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth,
What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"

POET.-Cease, idiot, cease thy loathsome cant!
Day-labourer, slave of toil and want!
I hate thy babble vain and hollow.
Thou art a worm, no child of day:
Thy god is Profit-thou wouldst weigh
By pounds the Belvidere Apollo.
Gain-gain alone to thee is sweet.
The marble is a god! . . . . what of it
Thou count'st a pie-dish far above it—
A dish wherein to cook thy meat!

MOB.-But, if thou be'st the Elect of Heaven,
The gift that God has largely given,
Thou shouldst then for our good impart,
To purify thy brother's heart.

Yes, we are base, and vile, and hateful,
Cruel, and shameless, and ungrateful—
Impotent and heartless tools,

Slaves, and slanderers, and fools.
Come then, if charity doth sway thee,
Chase from our hearts the viper-brood;
However stern, we will obey thee;
Yes, we will listen, and be good!
POET.-Begone, begone! What common feeling
Can e'er exist 'twixt ye and me?
Go on, your souls in vices steeling;
The lyre's sweet voice is dumb to ye:
Go! foul as reek of charnel-slime,
In every age, in every clime,
Ye aye have felt, and yet ye feel,
Scourge, dungeon, halter, axe, and wheel.
Go, hearts of sin and heads of trifling,
From your vile streets, so foul and stifling,
They sweep the dirt-no useless trade!
But when, their robes with ordure staining,
Altar and sacrifice disdaining,

Did e'er your priests ply broom and spade?
'Twas not for life's base agitation
That we were born-for gain nor care-
No-we were born for inspiration,
For love, for music, and for prayer!

The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may, perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the original exceedingly well adapted to be sung-one of the highest merits of this class of poetry-for all ancient ballads, in every language throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted; and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these ancient compositions-the first lispings of the Muse-can only be successful in proportion as they possess the essential and characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original, distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse :

THE BLACK SHAWL.

Like a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish-this heart knows them all.

When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.

That fair one caress'd me-my life! oh, 'twas bright,
But it set-that fair day—in a hurricane night.

One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew.

"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And she hath betray'd thee-thy young Grecian maid."

I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold.

"Ho! my charger-my charger!" we mount, we depart,
And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.

On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood-
I was faint and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:

By the maiden's lone window I listen'd, and there

I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.

The light darken'd round me-then flash'd my good blade....
The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.

On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.

I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream
Thus perish'd the maiden-thus perish'd my dream.

This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore-
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.

The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.

Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light-
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night,

Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish-this heart knows them all!

The pretty lines which we are now about to offer, are rather remarkable as being written in the manner of the ancient national songs of Russia, than for any thing very new in the ideas, or very striking in the expression. They possess, however at least in the original-a certain charm arising from simplicity and grace.

Among the thousand-and-one compositions, in all languages, founded upon the sublime theme of the downfall and death of Napoleon, there are, we think, very few which have surpassed, in weight of thought, in splendour of diction, and in grandeur of versification, Púshkin's noble lyric upon this subject. The mighty share which Russia had in overthrowing the gigantic power of the greatest of modern conquerors, could not fail of affording to a Russian poet a peculiar source of triumphant yet not too exulting inspiration; and Pushkin, in that portion of the following ode in which he is led more particularly to allude to the part played by his country in the sublime drama, whose catastrophe was the ruin of Bonaparte's blood-cemented empire, has given undeniable proof of his possessing that union of magnanimity and patriotism, which is not the meanest characteristic of elevated genius. While the poet gives full way to the triumphant feelings so naturally inspired by the exploits of Russian valour, and by the patient fortitude of Russian policy, he wisely and nobly abstains from indulging in any of those outbursts of gratified revenge and national hatred which deform the pages of almost all-poets, and even historians—who have written on this colossal subject.

NAPOLEON.

The wondrous destiny is ended,

The mighty light is quench'd and dead;
In storm and darkness hath descended
Napoleon's sun, so bright and dread.
The captive King hath burst his prison-
The petted child of Victory;

And for the Exile hath arisen
The dawning of Posterity.

O thou, of whose immortal story
Earth aye the memory shall keep,
Now, 'neath the shadow of thy glory
Rest, rest, amid the lonely deep!
A grave sublime. . . . nor nobler ever

Couldst thou have found. . . . for o'er thine urn
The Nations' hate is quench'd for ever,
And Glory's beacon-ray shall burn.

There was a time thine eagles tower'd
Resistless o'er the humbled world;
There was a time the empires cower'd
Before the bolt thy hand had hurl'd:
The standards, thy proud will obeying,
Flapp'd wrath and woe on every wind-
A few short years, and thou wert laying
Thine iron yoke on human kind.

And France, on glories vain and hollow,
Had fixed her frenzy-glance of flame-
Forgot sublimer hopes, to follow

Thee, Conqueror, thee-her dazzling shame!

Thy legions' swords with blood were drunken

All sank before thine echoing tread;

And Europe fell-for sleep was sunken,

The sleep of death-upon her head.

Thou mightst have judged us, but thou wouldst not! What dimm'd thy reason's piercing light,

That Russian hearts thou understoodst not,

From thine heroic spirit's height?

Moscow's immortal conflagration

Foreseeing not, thou deem'dst that we

Would kneel for peace, a conquer'd nation