omposition, than in the beauty and
delicacy of the image stamped or graven upon the metal; and the critic
may object against us, if our critic be in a severe mood (quod Dii
avertant boni!) the rashness of the numismatist, who should hope, in
recasting the exquisite medals of antique art, to retain--or even
imperfectly imitate--the touches of the Ionic or the Corinthian chisel.

True as is the above reasoning with respect to the slighter productions
of poetry in all languages, it is peculiarly true when applied to the
smaller offspring of Pushkin's muse; and were we not sufficiently
convinced of the danger and the arduousness of our attempt, by our own
experience and by analogy, we should have found abundant reason for
diffidence in the often repeated counsels of Russians, who all unite in
asserting that there is something so peculiarly delicate and inimitable
in the diction and versification of these little pieces, as to be almost
beyond the reach of a foreigner's _appreciation_, and, consequently,
that any attempt at _imitation_ must, _a fortiori_, of necessity be a
failure. Notwithstanding all this, and despite many sinister presages,
we have obstinately persevered in our determination to clothe in an
English dress those pieces, great and small--gems or flowers,
productions perfumed by grace of diction, or heavy with weight of
thought--which struck us most forcibly among the poems of our author;
and we hope that our boldness, if not our success, may be rewarded with
the approbation of such of our countrymen as may be curious to know
something of the tone and physiognomy of the Russian literature.

PRESENTIMENT.

Clouds anew have gather'd o'er me,
Sad and grim, and dark and still;
Black and menacing before me
Glooms the Destiny of Ill ...

In contempt with fate contending,
Shall I bring, to meet her flood,
The enduring and unbending
Spirit of my youthful blood?

Worn with life-storm, cold and dreary,
Calmly I await the blast,
Saved from wreck, yet wet and weary,
I may find a port at last.

See, it comes--the hour thou fearest!
Hour escapeless! We must part!
Haply now I press thee, dearest,
For the last time, to my heart.

Angel mild and unrepining,
Gently breathe a fond farewell--
Thy soft eyes, through tear-drops shining,
Raised or lower'd--shall be my spell:

And thy memory abiding,
To my spirit shall restore
The hope, the pride, the strong confiding