KOZLOV, IVAN IVANOVICH, a Russian poet, who was much attached to the English language and literature, was born in 1774, moved in the higher circles of society, and was, it is said, remarkable for his liveliness and activity, till in his twenty-ninth year he was by paralysis deprived of the use of his feet. He was previously acquainted with French and Italian, but it was not till after he was thus afflicted that he made himself master of English, which be atudied during intervals of pain. A still severer calamity awaited him, for he was afterwards deprived of his sight. A deep feeling for poetry was first developed in him after his afflictions, and during the remainder of his life the study and the composition of poetry formed his chief con. solation. He died in 1838. In the collection of his poetical works, which occupies two volumes, tho chief are two narrative poems in the style of Byron, 'The Monk' (Chernetz), and the 'Princess Dolgorukaya.' Among his numeroua translations from the English are the 'Funeral of Sir John Moore,' Wordsworth's We are Seven,' Byron's Bride of Abydos,' Scott's Young Lochinvar,' in which, from some singular fancy, he has altered the name from Lochinvar to Waverley, and extracts from 'Don Juan' and Childs Harold.' Among the original
poems is an interesting epistle to Walter Scott, expressing the vain longings of tho author to visit Abbotsford and gaze on the abbey of Melrose. Kozlov was such a writer of English that he even translated Pushkin's Fountain of Bakhiserai' into our language, and forwarded it to Lord Byron with a request to he permitted to dedicate it to the English poet. It was about the time of Byron'a death, and Kozlov never received an answer. He aftewards intrusted it to an English traveller in Russia (we believe Captain Chamfer), who in his Anec dotes of Russia,' published in the New Monthly Magazine' for 1830, gives a specimen, which is as correct in language as if written by an Englishman, and possesses considerable poetical merit. Ilia verse!, in Russian are extremely tender and harmonious, and breathe a spirit of melancholy which is not surprising under the circumstances of the author. Some of the finest are prefixed to a translation of the ' Cotten' Saturday Night.'