My heart has found its consolation-- All has revived once more for me-- And vanish'd life, and inspiration, And tears, and love, and deity. * * * * * The versification of the following little poem is founded on a system which Pushkin seems to have looked upon with peculiar favour, as he has employed the same metrical arrangement in by far the largest proportion of his poetical works. So gracefully and so easily, indeed, has he wielded this metre, and with so flexible, so delicate, and so masterly a hand, that we could not refrain from attempting to imitate it in our English version; for we considered that it is impossible to say how much of the peculiar _character_ of a poet's writings depends upon the colouring, or rather the _touch_--if we may borrow a phrase from the vocabulary of the critic in painting--of the metre. Undoubtedly a poet is the best judge not only of the kind, but of the degree of the effect which he wishes to produce upon his reader; and there may be, between the thoughts which he desires to embody, and the peculiar harmonies in which he may determine to clothe those thoughts, analogies and sympathies too delicate for our grosser ears; or, at least, if not too subtle and refined for our ears to perceive, yet far too delicate for us to define, or exactly to appreciate. Moved by this reasoning, we have always preferred to follow, as nearly as we could, the exact versification, and even the most minute varieties of tone and metrical accentuation. Inattention to this point is undoubtedly the stumbling-block of translators in general; of the dangerous consequences of such inattention, it is not necessary to give any elaborate proof. How much, we may ask, does not the poetry of Dante, for instance, lose, by being despoiled of that great source of its peculiar effect springing from the employment of the _terza rima_! It is in vain to say, that it is enormously difficult to produce the _terza rima_ in English. To translate the "gran padre Alighier" into English _worthily_, the _terza rima must_ be employed, whatever be the obstacles presented by the dissimilarities existing between the Italian and English languages. THE MOB. "Procul este, profani!" A Poet o'er his glowing lyre A wild and careless hand had flung. The base, cold crowd, that nought admire, Stood round, responseless to his fire, With heavy eye and mocking tongue. "And why so loudly is he singing?" ('Twas thus that idiot mob replied,) "His music in our ears is ringing; But whither flows that music's tide? What doth it teach? His art is madness! He moves our soul to joy or sadness. A wayward necromantic spell! Free as the breeze his music floweth, But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth, What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"