RUSSIAN POETRY. POETRY, like the elements which are necessary to our existence, is common to every climate; it is a flower that will flourish in any soil. Wherever there exists a certain degree of mental civilization-wherever the imagination, the fancy, and the sensibility of man have power to reach a certain state of developement-there poetry will inevitably spring up; and wherever those qualities attain their highest and purest state of existence, there will poetry advance to its loftiest character, and fulfil its best purpose:-whether it be on the burning plains of the east, in the inspiring climate, and beneath the elysian sky of the south, or in the frozen regions of the farthest north. We have lying before us a little work, entitled Russian Anthology.* The freezing breath of criticism waxes warm and genial at the very name; and accordingly, before opening the book, we had made up our mind to seek for beauties, and not to seek for faults.-Fortunately, we shall be able to fulfil our un-critical intentions, with perfect ease and safety to our critical consciences.-The work before us is really a very interesting volume; not only from its entire novelty of subject, but on account of its real and intrinsic merit. As its name indicates, it is a selection from the poetry of the Russian nation, from its earliest period (which is, indeed, a very late one) up to the present time. It appears, from an introduction by Mr. Bowring, the translator, that the poetry of Russia was twin-born with her civilization.-In fact, she owes this as well as all her other greatness-to that noblest of barbarians the Czar Peter. Mr. Bowring considers Lomonosov, (who was born in 1711) as the father of Russian poetry.-On this account, the following slight notice of his life and works will be considered as interesting. Michael Vassiljevich Lomonosov was born in Cholmognie, in 1711. He was the son of a sailor. He studied Latin and Greek, rhetoric and poetry, in Sakonospaskoe Uchilishche. In 1734 he entered the imperial academy, and two years afterwards was sent to Germany as a student. On his return to Petersburg he was appointed to the professorship of Chemistry in 1751 he was made associate of the academy, and in 1760 called to the directorship of the academical gymnasium and of the university. He died in 1765. His poems are two books of an Heroic Epic entitled Peter Velikii, Peter the Great; Tamira i Selim, a tragedy; Demophont, a tragedy; Pismo o polza stekla, a Poetical Epistle on the Uses of Glass, addressed to Shuvalov; Oda na Shchastice, J. B. Rousseau; Vanchannaje nadezhda Ode to Happiness, from the French of Rossiiskoi Imperii, The Garlanded Hope of the Russian Empire, from the German of Professor Junker; eleven spiritual odes; encomiastic odes; forty-nine laudatory inscriptions; poem on a fire-work; Polydore, an Idyl, and sundry smaller pieces; imitations of Anacreon, poetical epistles, translations, &c. &c. We are furnished with only two specimens of this poet's style; and shall, therefore, turn to others for extracts. The Russian poet, whose works (judging from the examples before us) are most worthy of notice, is Derzhavin.—There is a lofty and sustained style of thought and feeling about his Ode, entitled "God," which indicates a high degree of mental power and cultivation; and in other parts of the specimens that are given of his poetry, we discover an active and excursive imagination, and a very vivid and exquisite fancy. -The following is from the ode we have mentioned, entitled "God." In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep-may The count 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. Specimens of the Russian Poets; with Preliminary Remarks, and Biographical Notices. Translated by John Bowring, FLS. Foolscap 8vo. Hunter, London, 1821. Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! What follows is from the longest poem in the collection, entitled "The Waterfall;" also by Derzhavin. The descriptions of the wolf and the stag, in the two last stanzas, are nearly as good as any thing of the kind can be: Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright, Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light: They sink, they rise, and, sparkling, cover all With infinite refulgence; while its song, Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods alongRolls through the woods-they send its ac cents back, Majestic thundering, beautiful and bright. How many a wondering eye is turned to thee, In admiration lost;-short-sighted men! Bring nought but devastation and distress, Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still As shepherd's pipe, or song of youthful love. It has no thundering torrent, but it flows Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes. The following is from the same poem:-the bard fancies the shade of the great Potemkin to pass before him. Lighted them up with brightness: joy and love Play'd round thy flow'ry footsteps: pleasure, pride Walk'd in majestic glory at thy side. The last stanza is extremely graceful and elegant. The next poet, whose works are noticed in this collection, is Batiushkov. Nothing can be more amiable and pleasant than the greater part of his poem, addressed "To my Penates." The following are extracts from it :— O Lares! in my dwelling rest, Furniture strewed here and there. And thou, Lisette! at evening steal, "Thou enchantress! is it so? "O my heart's friend, I am thine; But the stars are now retreating O! has gold a ray so bright It really warms our hearts-critics, as we are to think that such poetry as this should find its way into the cottages of the Russian peasantry, illuminating them-as it cannot fail to do with the rays of pleasure and content. In an after part of the same poem, Batiushkov addresses some of his friends in a very spirited and hap py strain. The following is of Derzhavin, to whom we have introduced the reader above. O! I hear their voices blending: Our Parnassian giant, proud, We close our extracts from this poem, by giving the finishing lines:— Soon shall we end our pilgrimage; And at the close of life's short stage Sink smiling on our dusty bed: The careless wind shall o'er us sweep; Where sleep our sires, their sons shall sleep, With evening's darkness round our head. No! if love's tribute Assemble in the moonlight ray, flute I played and twine its form, though mute, 319 We take leave of this pleasant little poem, with an impression that the writer of it cannot fail to be a person of a warm and happy temperament, and a gay, graceful, and amiable turn of mind. give many more extracts, we pass Our limits not permitting us to over the specimens from Zhukovsky, and proceed to those from Karamsin all generally known in this country, the only Russian name that is at in connection with literature.-The translated and published here some character of this writer's travelsyears ago,--was not calculated to raise our expectations very high, with regard to his poetry. That work indicated an amiable and enthusiastic turn of mind; but it was disfigured by an apparently incurable propensity to indulge in what is understood by the term sentimentality. The specimens here given of his poetry do not exhibit this propensity, to any very offensive extent; but they do not possess much of either delicacy or originality. By far the best is a short poem, called "The Church-yard."-We give it entire. THE CHURCH-YARD. First Voice. How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear! With the howls of the storm-wind-the creaks of the bear, And the white bones all clattering together! Second Voice. How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep: Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its And flow'rets perfume it with ether. There riots the blood-crested worm on the And the yellow skull serves the foul toad And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss. • Plakalschitzii-women hired to mourn round a corpse. |