and peaceably enjoyed the highest admiration and praise that superior talents and wit could ensure, an English gentleman arrived at Berlin, who had so extraordinary a memory that he could repeat a long composition, in prose or verse, if once read or recited to him, without missing a word. The King had the curiosity to put him to the test. The Englishman appeared, and succeeded to the admiration of the whole Court. It happened, that immediately after this trial, Voltaire sent the King word, that, with the King's permission, he should do himself the honour to read to him a poem he had just finished. The King gave him permission to come; but, at the same time, resolved to divert himself at the expense of the poet. He accordingly placed the Englishman behind a screen, and ordered him to pay particular attention to what Voltaire should read. Voltaire came, and read his poem with emphasis, in hopes of obtaining the King's warm approbation. But, to his great disappointment, the King seemed perfectly cold and indifferent to what he was reading. The poem was finished: Voltaire asked the King's opinion of it, and received for answer," That his Majesty had

lately observed, that Monsieur Voltaire fathered the works of others, and gave them out for his own. This was a degree of effrontery he should not have thought him capable of, and he could not but be highly displeased at it."

Voltaire was astonished. He complained that he was wronged, and declared that he did not deserve the reproach. "Well, then," said the King, come forth, Sir, and repeat the verses of which Voltaire pretends to be the author.”

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The Englishman came forward, and, with great composure, repeated the poem, without missing a single passage. "Now," cried the King, are you not obliged to confess that my accusation is founded in truth?"-Heavens !" cried Voltaire, "why sleeps your lightning? why is your vengeance withheld from punishing the crimes of a miscreant who dares to rob me of my laurels? Here sorcery is employed, and I am driven to despair." The King laughed heartily at this scene of poetic fury, and rewarded the Englishman liberally for the amusement he had procured him.

DERZHAVIN.

"Of all the poets of Russia," says Mr. Bow

VOL. II.

K

ring, "Derzhavin is, in my opinion, entitled to the very first place. His compositions breathe a high and sublime spirit: they are full of inspiration. His versification is sonorous, original, characteristic; his subjects generally such as allow him to give full scope to his ardent imagination and lofty conceptions. Of modern poets, he most resembles Klopstock. His Oda Bog,'' Ode on God,'-with the exception of some of the wonderful passages of the 'Old Testament,' 'written with a pen of fire,' and glowing with the brightness of heaven, passages of which Derzhavin has frequently availed himself, is one of the most impressive and sublime addresses I am acquainted with, on a subject so pre-eminently impressive and sublime.

"This is the poem of which Golovnin says, in his narrative, that it has been translated into Japanese, by order of the Emperor, and is hung up, embroidered with gold, in the Temple of Jeddo. It appears from the periodicals, that an honour something similar has been done in China to the same poem. It has been translated into the Chinese and Tartar languages, written on a piece of rich silk, and suspended in the imperial palace at Pekin.”

The following is the opening of this celebrated poem, admirably translated by Mr. Bowring, in his “Russian Anthology.”

"GOD.

O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide;
Unchang'd 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 all 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 splendour fills all space with rays divine.
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!"

PANANTI'S " EPIGRAMS."

THIS author, who is chiefly known in England by his interesting account of his captivity among the Turks, is much esteemed in Florence as a wit and a pure Tuscan writer. His " Epigrams" are in great circulation in Italian society, where they are admired for their causticity, political allusion, boldness, and liberality of sentiment. The volume which he has printed, though pruned of whatever might give umbrage to the powers that be, has considerable merit. A large part, however, consists of translations from the French, English, and ancient epigrammatists; and of those pieces which are original, many partake too much of the licentiousness, as well as of the purity of diction, of the fifteenth century, to render them generally acceptable to an English public.

EPIGRAM FROM PANANTI.

"Stretch'd on his bed of death, old Thomas lying,
And pretty certain he was dying,