some evil effect upon a Christian clergyman, and work him harm:-} think-Have you any thing cold in the house? for, candidly, I feel almost fainting, what with the bath, and the prima mensa' of sorrel, eggs, and snails."-" This swan, I think you would like a piece of the breast; it is finer than a goose: I would have procured, if due time had been given, an Avis Afra,' or Guinea hen, a Melian crane, a dish of nightingales, and other dainties, but doubt not you will find these truly praiseworthy, if you can so far overcome prejudice, as to taste them." Doctor Biventer took a piece of the swan, paring away all the hard parts, and avoiding the intolerable seasoning, and gravy; for it really became a serious thing with him, to be kept so long fasting. Mr. Flitt took the wing of a peacock, (not very unappropriate ;) and Mr. Trace, notwithstanding Mr. Rust much wished to help him to a lizard,took a slice of the "porcus trojanus;" Mr. Rust, as he said, confined himself to lizard and hare, which he ate as devoutly as if he had been accustomed to such meat from his infancy: but no sooner had the several knives opened the horrible beds of seasoning, with which every dish was full, than the room became almost too much to bear; Dr. Biventer puffed and fanned himself, Mr. Flitt took out his bottle of aromatic vinegar, and Mr. Trace requested permission to withdraw for a few moments, as he said he felt faint. Thus passed away the " caput cœnæ," and then came the "commissatio," or dessert, which consisted of mushrooms, apples, pears, candied asafoetida, and jellies, of vinegar, honey, and oil. The wine was all perfumed with rose and bergamot, and had been suspended in the smoke of the kitchen fire, to give it the flavour of extreme age, like the old Chian and Ambracian, the whole of which was not quite what could have been wished by the guests. The gentlemen took a few of the apples and pears, which were the only simple products of nature upon the table, and poured out plentifully the general consoler, wine, which warmed them, and raised their spirits, which hitherto appeared to be less influenced by the luxuries of a Roman entertainment, than of a plain English one.' pp. 10-14.

The tale is interspersed with some short lyrical pieces, and a few are printed at the end, of which the following will be no unfavourable specimen.

THE BOX OF RELICS.

'Oh, raise not up that casket lid,

No riches there to tempt thee shine;

No pilfered treasure there lies hid,

Nor glittering gem from Ormian mine;
Yet, dearer than the diamond's blaze,
To me those seeming trifles are;
Memorials of departed days,

And wrecks of forms, though faded, fair..
'Remembrancers-yet do not these,
Alone, diffuse this shadowy gloom-
The evening walk, the favorite trees,
The empty seat, the vacant room :

These tell me, wheresoe'er I go,

There was a time-though now 'tis past-
That once-it was not always so-

But that was far too bright to last!
Yes-sightless to another's view,

To me, there lurks in many a place,
Beneath a heav'n of cloudless blue,

A shade, the sun can never chase:
And though afar should light, and day,
And every form I love, depart;
From memory I can never stray,

Nor lull the thoughts that burn my heart.
Yet might I close my aching eye,
And some short hours of respite steal;
Though dreams of joy might waft them by,
I would not-it is sweet to feel:
'Tis sweet, to catch the seraph tone

Of love, ere yet the dream be fled;
But sweeter, far, to sit alone,

And meditate upon the dead.' p. 225.

Art. XI. Specimens of the Russian Poets: with Preliminary Remarks and Biographical Notices. Translated by John Bowring, F.L.S. 12mo. pp. xxiv. 240. Price 8s. London. 1821.

WE had occasion, in a recent article, to remark on the extreme inadequacy, for the most part, of poetical translation to convey a just idea of all that is mainly distinguishing in its original. The specimens which we then gave, were adapted strikingly to illustrate the remark, by shewing, in the instance of one sonnet in particular, how different a character the same composition may be made to assume in the bands of two translators who shall each give the literal meaning of his author with almost equal fidelity. We were glad, on reading Mr. Bowring's Introduction to these Specimens, to find him quite alive to the extreme difficulty of communicating to a foreign version the peculiar characters of the original; not because it happens to support our opinion, but because such an avowal seemed to vouch in some degree, by its modesty and good sense, for his competency to overcome the difficulty in question.

The graee,' he remarks, the harmony, the happy arrangement, the striking adaptation of words to ideas; every thing in fact, except the primary and naked thought, requires for its perfect communication a genius equal to its first conception: and indeed the fate of translators, who have in general had all their merits put to the account of their author, and all their defects unsparingly to their own, might well alarm new adventurers from this perilous sea.'

* Eclectic Review, Dec. 1820. Vol. xiv. p. 560.

This last assertion is not, however, to the best of our knowledge, correct: we think that our Translators have had their full share of merit liberally assigned them. What a poetical translator is required to furnish, is, poetry. If he fails in this, it matters not where the fault lies, whether with him or with his original: either the poem was not worth translating, or it has not had justice done it. Poems that acquire any permanent celebrity in their native language, must possess, by the rule of cause and effect. the merits and attributes of poetry. Those merits may not be discoverable in a literal version; but that proves only that they do not consist in the thought, and that there is a want of sympathy between the poet and his translator, or a want of correspondence between their respective languages, which prevents the feeling of the original from communicating itself to the copy. A translation, if it does not succeed in producing upon us the same effect as the poem in its native language, ought at least to enable us to understand how the poem produces the effect which is ascribed to it. If it does not this, it does nothing.*

Of the fidelity of the specimens before us, as translations, we can form a judgement only from internal evidence; but we see no reason to doubt the validity of this test. They have an original and a foreign character; they present to us, very frequently, peculiarities of expression and new modifications of familiar thought, which mark their exotic origin; while, at the same time, there is a considerable variety of style preserved, which seems to bespeak that the Translator has caught the spirit of his author. The measure of the original, he tells us, has been generally preserved. We agree with him as to the importance of thus adhering, in most cases, to one of the distinguishing characters of poetical composition, as far as the genius of the language will admit of it.' will admit of it.' This saving clause is, however, a very necessary qualification of the position, since nothing short of a very ridiculous effect would be produced by the attempt at imitating some of the measures of German poetry in English verse. Nor would the Alexandrine couplet of the French heroics be more tolerable. We ventured, too, to suggest in our review of Adamson's Camoens, whether the stiffness of the English sonnet inade it in all cases the best possible form for rendering a sonnet from the Italian or Portuguese, where the terseness, simplicity, and ease of the original, (which are perfectly consistent with the artificial structure of the sonnet in

Mr. Bowring says: There is generally no idea in this country of the sublime and imposing character of the writings of Klopstock, for they have never been presented to us in any thing like their 'original form.'

those languages,) must in some measure be sacrificed in the version.* As a general rule, Mr. Bowring's remark is correct, and we do not perceive that the adherence to it has either fettered him, or betrayed him into any unpleasing novelties of rhythm. Of the ability he discovers as a versifier, we shall, without further preface, enable our readers to judge from the first specimen, a version of the Oda Bog (Ode to God) of Derzhavin; a poem which has had the unspeakable honour of being translated into the Japanese, Chinese, and Tartar languages, and of being hung up, written on silk embroidered with gold, in the Temple of Jeddo, and in the imperial palace of Pekin. Mr. Bowring states, that he has introduced in the first verse, a variation from the original, which does not accord with 'his views of the perfections of the Deity.' It would not have been amiss had the note informed us of the nature of this variation, by supplying a literal version of the passage.

*This suggestion was thrown out in reference to a particular sonnet ascribed to Camoens, of which we inserted a version by Mr. Adamson. The hint has induced some admirer of the Portuguese Poet, to attempt a free and spirited rendering of it, which we transcribe from the Sheffield Iris for the gratification of such of our readers as may be interested by a comparison of the two versions.

Se quando vos perdi, minha esperança

A memoria perdèra juntamente.'

• With hopes once fondly cherished,
Now quenched in keen regret,
Had all remembrance perished,
O could I but forget-
Forget the thoughts that haunt me,
The joy that might not last,
The present should not daunt me,
Though all with woe o'ercast.
But Love, in whom I trusted,
That treacherous bosom guest,
When I, with life disgusted,
Court apathy for rest;

Still mocks me with the vision
Of happy days that were,
To darken the transition,
To keep alive despair.
In barbarous succession
He bids past joys appear,
Recalls the faint impression
Of raptures bought to dear.-
This to the broken-hearted

The keenest anguish gives :
'Tis not that Hope's departed,
But Memory, Memory lives.'

C.

'GOD.

• Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide,
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight;
Thou only God! There is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One!

Whom none can comprehend and none explore;
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone:
Embracing all,-supporting, ruling o'er,—
Being whom we call GOD-and know no more.
⚫ In its sublime research, philosophy

May measure out the ocean deep-may count
The sands or the sun's rays-but, God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure :-none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark:
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence;-Lord! on Thee
Eternity had its foundation :—all

Sprung forth from Thee:-of light, joy, harmony,
Sole origin:-all life, all beauty Thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create,

Thy splendor fiils all space with rays divine;

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround:
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!

As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee;
And as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light-
A glorious company of golden streams-
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in Thee is lost-
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I then? Heaven's unnumber'd host,