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Majestic thundering, beautiful and bright. Furniture strewed here and there.
How many a wondering eye is turned to And those in higher love I hold
thee,

Than sofas rich with silk and gold,
In admiration lost ;—short-sighted men ! Or china vases gay and fair.
Thy furious wave gives no fertility ;

And thou, Lisette ! at evening steal, Thy waters, hurrying fiercely through the Through the shadow-cover’d vale, plain,

To this soft and sweet retreat ;
Bring nought but devastation and distress, Steal, my nymph, on silent feet.
And leave the flowery vale a wilderness. Let a brother's hat disguise
O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill,

Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes ; Watering with steps serene the field, the O'er thee be my mantle thrown, grove

Bind my warlike sabre on: Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still

When the treacherous day is o'er, As shepherd's pipe, or song of youthful Knock, fair maiden, at my door; love.

Enter then, thou soldier sweet !
It has no thundering torrent, but it flows Throw thy mantle at my feet;
Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes. Let thy curls, so brightly glowing,

The following is from the same On thy ivory, shoulders flowing,
poem :-the bard fancies the shade Be unbound: thy lily breast
of the great Potemkin to pass before Heave, no more with robes opprest!

“ Thou enchantress! is it so? him.

Sweetest, softest shepherdess !
'Tis he, the hardiest of mortals ; ine, Art thou really come to bless
Sublimely soaring, takes his flight alone, With thy smiles my cottage now ? ?
Creator of his own proud destiny :

O her snowy hands are pressing No footstep near him—that bright path Warmly, wildly pressing mine! his own.

Mine her rosy lips are blessing, Thy fame, Potemkin, shall in glory glow, Sweet as incense from the shrine, While everlasting ages lingering flow. Sweet as zephyr's breath divine

Gently murmuring through the bough ; Beauty and art and knowledge raised to Even so she whispers now; him

O my heart's friend, I am thine ; Triumphal arches : smiling fortune wove Mine, beloved one! art thou." Myrtle and laurel wreaths, and victory's What a privileged being he, beam

Who in life's obscurity, Lighted them up with brightness : joy and Underneath a roof of thatch, love

Till the morning dawns above, Play'd round thy flow'ry footsteps : plea- Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch, sure, pride

In the arms of holy love! Walk'd in majestic glory at thy side.

But the stars are now retreating The last stanza is extremely grace

From the brightening eye of day, ful and elegant.

And the little birds are greeting,

Round their nests, the dewy ray. The next poet, whose works are noticed in this collection, is Bati- With the matin song of peace:

Hark! the very heaven is ringing ushkov.

Hark! a thousand warblers singing Nothing can be more amiable and

Waft their music on the breeze: pleasant than the greater part of his Al to life, to love are waking, poem, addressed « To my Penates.” From their wings their slumbers shaking; The following are extracts from it:- But my Lila still is sleeping

In her fair and flowery nest ; O Lares ! in my dwelling rest,

And the zephyr, round her creeping, Smile on the poet where he reigns,

Fondly fans her breathing breast; And sure the poet shall be blest.

O'er her cheeks of roses straying, Come, survey my dwelling over ;

With her golden ringlets playing : I'll describe it if I'm able :

From her lips I steal a kiss ;
In the window stands a table,

Drink her breath : but roses fairest,
Three-legged, tott'ring, with a cover, Richest nectar, rapture dearest,
Gay some centuries ago,

Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss,
Ragged, bare and faded now.

Never were as sweet as this. lost to fame,

Sleep, thou loved one! sweetly sleep! To honour lost, the blunted sword

Angels here their vigils keep ! (That relic of my father's name)

Blest, in innocence arrayed, Harmless hangs by rust devoured.

I from fortune's favours flee; Here are pillaged authors laid

Shrouded in the forest-shade, There, a hard and creaking bed ;

More than blest by love and thee. Broken, crumbling, argile-ware,

Calm and peaceful time rolls by:

In a corner,

0! has gold a ray so bright

We take leave of this pleasant litAs thy seraph-smile of light

tle poem, with an impression that Throws o'er happy poverty ?

the writer of it cannot fail to be a It really warms our hearts—critics, person of a warm and happy temas we are—to think that such poetry perament, and a gay, graceful, and as this should find its way into the amiable turn of mind. cottages of the Russian peasantry,- Our limits not permitting us to illuminating them -as it cannot fail give many more extracts, we pass to do—with the rays of pleasure and over the specimens from Zhukovsky, content. In an after part of the same and proceed to those from Karamsin poem, Batiushkov addresses some of the only Russian name that is at his friends in a very spirited and hap- all generally known in this country, py strain.

in connection with literature:--The The following is of Derzhavin, to character of this writer's travels whom we have introduced the reader translated and published here some above.

years ago,--was not calculated to raise 0! I hear their voices blending :

our expectations very high, with reList! the heavenly echoes come

gard to his poetry. That work indiWafted to my privileged home;

cated an amiable and enthusiastic Music hovers round my head,

turn of mind; but it was disfigured From the living and the dead.

by an apparently incurable propenOur Parnassian giant, proud,

sity to indulge in what is understood Tow'ring o'er the rest I see ;

by the term sentimentality. And, like storm or thunder loud,

The specimens here given of his Hear his voice of majesty.

poetry do not exhibit this propensity, Sons and deeds of glory singing

to any very offensive extent; but A majestic swan of light;

they do not possess much of either Now the harp of angels stringing,

delicacy or originality.- By far the Now he sounds the trump of fight ; best is a short poem, called “ The 'Midst the muses', graces' throng, Church-yard.”_We give it entire. Sailing through the heaven along; Horace' strength, and Pindar's fire,

THE CHURCH-YARD. Blended in his mighty lyre.

First Voice. Now he thunders, swift and strong,

How frightful the grave ! how deserted and Even like Suna o'er the waste;

drear! Now, like Philomela's song,

With the howls of the storm-wind-the Soft and spring-like, sweet and chaste,

creaks of the bear, Gently breathing o'er the wild,

And the white bones all clattering toHeaverly fancy's best loved child !

gether! We close our extracts from this

Sccond Voice. poem, by giving the finishing lines :

How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how Soon shall we end our pilgrimage ;

deep : And at the close of life's short stage Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its Sink smiling on our dusty bed :

sleep, The careless wind shall o'er us sweep;

And flow'rets perfume it with ether. Where sleep our sires, their sons shall

First Vvice. sleep,

There riots the blood-crested worm on the With evening's darkness round our head.

dead, There let no hired mourners weep: And the yellow skull serves the foul toad No costly incense fan the sod;

for a bed, No bell pretend to mourn; no hymn

And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.
Be heard midst midnight's shadows dim-

Second Voicc.
Can they delight a clay-cold clod ?
No! if love's tribute ye will

How lovely, how sweet the repose of the

pay, Assemble in the moonlight ray,

tomb: And throw fresh flow'reis o'er my clay :

No tempests are there :--but the nightin. Let my Penates sleep with me

gales come Here bring the cup I loved—the Aute

And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. I played—and twine its form, though mute,

First Voicc. With branches from the ivy-tree !

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er No grave-stone need the wanderer tell,

the grave :That he who lived, and loved so well, "Tis the vulture's abode :-'tis the wolf's Is sleeping in serenity.

dreary cave,

Plakalschitzii-women hired to mourn round a corpse.

waves

Where they tear up the earth with their When moving gently o'er the shadows dan fangs.

Of evening :-and their verge to silver

turning. Second Voice. There the coney at evening disports with

O what a lovely, soft tranquillity

Rests on the earth and breathes along the his love, Or rests on the sod ;—while the turtles Here is no cedar bent with misery ;

sca! above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

No holy cypress sighs or weeps, as seen

In other lands, where his dark branches First Voice.

green There darkness and dampness with poison. Mourn in the desert o'er neglected graves : ous breath,

Here his all.sheltering boughs he calmly And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death,

In the dim light, the sacred vigils keeping The trees are all barren and bare ! O'er the blest ashes on earth's bosom sleepSecond Voicc.

ing. O soft are the breezes that play round the

Picture of God! upon the prophet's shrine tomb,

Shine brightly-brightly, beautifully shine And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, Upon those holy fields where once he trod, With lilies and jessamine fair.

And flowers sprung up beneath his innocent

feet,
First Voice.

Tulips and aloes and narcissus' sweet,
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, A lovely carpet for the child of God!
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling
and fears,

We do not find any thing very at. He is launched on the wreck-covered tractive in the extracts which Mr. river !

Bowring next gives, from BognadoSccond Voice.

vich's celebrated poem, called Dus

henka The traveller outworn with life's pilgrimage

(Pysche); but the song dreary,

which follows is extremely naive and Lays down his rude staff, like one that is pretty. weary,

I'm fourteen summers old I trow, And sweetly reposes for ever.

"Tis time to look about me now : In the examples from Dmitriev, Twas only yesterday they said, there is little by which we are en

I was a silly, silly maid ;

"Tis time to look about me now. abled to characterize him. The following is pretty; it is for the grave The shepherd-swains so rudely stare, of Bogdanovich-who wrote a very

I must reprove them I declare ; beautiful poem on the subject of This talks of beautythat of love Psyche, and of whom we shall speak I'm such a fool I can't reprove hereafter.

I must reprove them I declare.

'Tis strange-but yet I hope no sin ; Here Love unseen, when sinks the evening Something unwonted speaks within :

Love's language is a mystery, Wets the cold urn with tears, and mourn- And yet I feel, and yet I see,ful thinks,

O what is this that speaks within? While his sad spirit, sorrow-broken, sinks, The shepherd cries, “ I love thee, sweet ; None now can sing my angel Psyche—none ! “ And I love thec," my lips repeat :

Krilov and Khemnitzer follow; Kind words, they sound as sweet to me and from the short specimens which As music's fairest melody; are given of their style, they seem

“ I love thee," oft my lips repeat. to be pleasant writers of 'fables: His pledge he brings, I'll not reprove; which is said to be a very favourite Ono! I'll take that pledge of love; mode of composition among the Rus. To thee my guardian dog I'd give, sian poets.

Could I without that guardian live : Next in order, are some extracts

But still i'll take thy pledge of love. from Bobrov's oriental poem, enti- My shepherd's crook I'll give to thee; tled The Khersonida ; which Mr. O no! my father gave it me Bowring takes occasion to compare From a fond child should ne'er be riven

And treasures by a parent given, with Lallah Rookh. The following is good :

O no! my father gave it me.

But thou shalt have yon lambkin fair Thou wondrous brother of the prophet, Nay! 'tis my mother's fondest care ; sun!

For every day she joys to count
So brightly on Medina's temple burning, Each snowy lambkin on the mount ;
And scarce less beautiful the crescent mooth, I'll give thee then no lombkin fair.

sun,

Aed :

But stay, my shepherd! wilt thou be Her bitter fate, and on departed time-
For ever faithful-fond to me?

Departed time--the glad, exulting time; A sweeter gift I'll then impart,

And there the lovely maiden robed herself, And thou shalt have-a maiden's heart, She rubed herself, with many adornings If thou wilt give thy heart to me.

robed, The rest of the contents of this in- And waited anxious for her trusted friend

Waited for her trusted friend :--a ruffian teresting volume, are chiefly songs,

he! -anacreontic, amatory, national, He played the ruffian with the maid and &c. The following is by Davidov; -and if it is not so graceful and ele- Alas! love's flower of hope is withered ! gant as some of Moore's

, it is quite well may that lonely flower decay and die! as gay and characteristic.

She calls in vain-she wipes her tears away: While honouring the grape's ruby nectar, Thee, rapid streamlet! they may fill, and All sportingly, laughingly gay ;

roll We determined-1, Silvia, and Hector,

Over thy bosom-make thy bed of tears : To drive old dame Wisdom away. “ I had adorned me for that faithless friend, my children, take care," said the bel. That faithless friend is, fled :-he hath dame,

stolen all, 4 Attend to these counsels of mine:

All my possessions but my grief :--that Get not tipsy ! for danger is seldom

grief Remote from the goblet of wine." He left in mercy, if that grief can kill. « With thee in his company, no man

Come death ! I veil me in thy shadows

dim Can ert,” said our wag with a wink; ** But come, thou good-natured old woman,

To thee I fly, as once I flew to him!” There's a drop in the goblet-and drink!"

Upon the whole, we consider this Shefrownedl--but her scruples soon twisting, volume as one of the most agreeable

Consented :-and smilingly said : and interesting that has come Lefore “ So polite—there's indeed no resisting, us for some time past. It was put For Wisdom was never ill-bred."

into our hands quite unexpectedly, She drank, but continued her teaching : and very late in the month; but we

" Let the wise from indulgence refrain ; have proceeded to notice it without And never gave over her preaching,

delay, both on account of the public, But to " Fill the goblet again.” say,

who will be anxious to know the And she drank, and she totter'd, but still character of a work on so novel a she

subject; and that the translator may Was talking and shaking her head :

not remain in doubt as to its probaMuttered“ temperance”-“ prudence"

ble reception. until she Was carried by Folly to bed.

It is proper to state that, in our

extracts, we have chiefly considered The next we shall give, by Kos- variety and characteristicness; so trov, is equally Moore-ish.

that what we have brought forward, The rose is my favourite flower :

may be regarded as a fair general On its tablets of crimson I swore,

specimen of the work—not as a colThat up to my last living hour

lection of all its best parts. I never would think of thee more.

We cannot close this hasty notice I scarcely the record had made,

without expressing our decided adEre Zephyr, in frolicsome play,

miration of the manner in which the On his light, airy pinions convey'd translation is made--at least, as far Both tablet and promise away.

as we are enabled to judge: for we The last extract we shall make is do not pretend to determine as to its a national song, the name of whose faithfulness to the originals. It is author is unknown. We give it on ac- evident, that Mr. Bowring possesses count of its being characteristic of a very elegant and cultivated taste the national poetry of Russia -par- a copious flow of language, and great ticularly by reason of the repetitions skill and variety of versification. of the end of one line at the begin- It is proper to add that, among the ning of the next—which produces a principal Russian poets, whose names very peculiar, and in many cases, a and works we have had occasion to very good effect.

mention, Karamsin, Batiushkov, A young maid sat upon the streamlet's side, Zhukovsky, Dmitriev, and Krilov, are And thought most tearfully on her bitter still living, and enjoying the populaA SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF EDWARD PERRINSON, THE POET.

rity which they so well deserve.

fate;

To the Editor of Baldwin's Magazine.

“ Full many a flower is born to blush unseen !"-Gray.

Sır,— Although somewhat ad- before my threshold, and set the vanced in years, and altogether un- roses weeping and drooping at my accustomed to the pedantic regula- windows. I must here take leave tions of literary composition, I can- to remark, how refreshing it is to not consent to go out of life without stand at the door in a summer rain, contributing my mite to the intellec- and see the flowers trembling with tual stores of our English literature. pleasure, and pluming themselves I am now sixty years of age,—and in the shower, and hear the unceasyet I read the Poets with the avidity ing whispers of the leaves while of youth,- entering into the melan- they are feeding. My evenings, afchólies of your forlorn sonneteer with ter" Stea, are passed in arranging a corresponding tenderness of feel- papers, which are fragrant with age ing, and rushing “ all abroad” with and endearing recollections,-or in the blustering Pindarist, on the wings writing a letter to a friend in town, of a mighty ode, with the nerve and --or in finishing a book (I never beairiness of one of Mr. Fuseli's pic- gin a book of an evening, for the tured elves. I rise, Mr. Editor, closing of the day calls for harmoniearly in the morning, and take a ous occupation, and unfits the mind walk by the sea,* which keeps alive for fresh undertakings,) --or in pe-, the old poetry of my heart, whether rusing one of my owri old sonnets, it comes green and fresh before the written many years since, to the lively wind and ends itself in thunder charming Miss Charlotte Dat my feet, or whether it lulls itself who was then on a visit at the house to rest, after a sleepless night,- and of the intelligent Mrs. Ybut just “ heaves as remembering conning my own favourite stanzas ills that are o'er.” This custom of to the inimitable Myra, (the present mine keeps the colour contant to my Mrs. — -,) whose light youthful cheek. I am, what the world calls image is still in my heart.-Whose “a rosy old gentleman.' I next fatal smiles are ever in my eyes, dress myself and breakfast on rare nearly as bright as when first I gazed souchong and dried fish. (Let me upon them ! I must here turn from recommend the salted whiting, or my paper to read those stanzas buckhorn, as it is called, particularly again ;-I think they are certainly if you can procure any of old Hen- in my best style.—How well do Í derson's curing.) After this healthy remember worthy Tom Cartwright meal, I pass the morning among my (a man of admirable poetical taste books, and thus transport myself to and judgment), worthy Tom Cartthe far-off passions and pastimes of wright liked them so well that he my youth, - living over again the begged a copy for the Gentleman's days of gallantry and poetical tender- Magazine,-and there, in that sa

An early dinner leaves me an cred mausoleum, these hopes of my afternoon's leisure for walking, when heart lie entombed for ever.— The the weather is dry, with a book, in following are the stanzas, for I canthe fields behind my house (which not resist copying them,-and you reach to a pleasant wood), or for will judge for yourself, how strong lingering with a book in-doors, when that passion must have been, which the showers rustle through the leaves could give birth to such lines.

or in

ness.

I rent a cottage on the southern coast of Devonshire, which is white fronted, and smothered with roses all the year round. I grow my own lettuces, and play a rubber twice a week. Thank Heavens ! stage coaches do not pass my door every hour and my cottage is not near a market town. My neighbours consist of a shooting parson-an ill-tempered maiden lady, who keeps a school, -an ungrammatical surgeon,

and his son, who has literally walked the hospitals, one gentleman,-three jilts,—and a halfpay lieutenant. My taxes are moderate.

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