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.

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!
Thy furious wave gives no fertility;
Thy waters, hurrying fiercely through the
plain,

Bring nought but devastation and distress,
And leave the flowery vale a wilderness.
O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill,
Watering with steps serene the field, the
grove-

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,
Smile on the poet where he reigns,
And sure the poet shall be blest.
Come, survey my dwelling over;
I'll describe it if I'm able:
In the window stands a table,
Three-legged, tott'ring, with a cover,
Gay some centuries ago,
Ragged, bare and faded now.
In a corner, lost to fame,
To honour lost, the blunted sword
(That relic of my father's name)
Harmless hangs by rust devoured.
Here are pillaged authors laid
There, a hard and creaking bed;
Broken, crumbling, argile-ware,

Furniture strewed here and there.
And those in higher love I hold
Than sofas rich with silk and gold,
Or china vases gay and fair.

And thou, Lisette! at evening steal,
Through the shadow-cover'd vale,
To this soft and sweet retreat ;
Steal, my nymph, on silent feet.
Let a brother's hat disguise
Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes;
O'er thee be my mantle thrown,
Bind my warlike sabre on:
When the treacherous day is o'er,
Knock, fair maiden, at my door;
Enter then, thou soldier sweet!
Throw thy mantle at my feet;
Let thy curls, so brightly glowing,
On thy ivory, shoulders flowing,
Be unbound: thy lily breast
Heave, no more with robes opprest!

"Thou enchantress! is it so?
Sweetest, softest shepherdess!
Art thou really come to bless
With thy smiles my cottage now?
O her snowy hands are pressing
Warmly, wildly pressing mine!
Mine her rosy lips are blessing,
Sweet as incense from the shrine,
Sweet as zephyr's breath divine
Gently murmuring through the bough;
Even so she whispers now;

"O my heart's friend, I am thine;
Mine, beloved one! art thou."
What a privileged being he,
Who in life's obscurity,
Underneath a roof of thatch,
Till the morning dawns above,
Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch,
In the arms of holy love!

But the stars are now retreating
From the brightening eye of day,
And the little birds are greeting,
Round their nests, the dewy ray.
Hark! the very heaven is ringing
With the matin song of peace:
Hark! a thousand warblers singing
Waft their music on the breeze:
All to life, to love are waking,
From their wings their slumbers shaking;
But my Lila still is sleeping
In her fair and flowery nest;
And the zephyr, round her creeping,
Fondly fans her breathing breast;
O'er her cheeks of roses straying,
With her golden ringlets playing:
From her lips I steal a kiss;
Drink her breath: but roses fairest,
Richest nectar, rapture dearest,
Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss,
Never were as sweet as this.
Sleep, thou loved one! sweetly sleep!
Angels here their vigils keep!
Blest, in innocence arrayed,
I from fortune's favours flee;
Shrouded in the forest-shade,
More than blest by love and thee.
Calm and peaceful time rolls by: