This is one of the earliest poems of Shevchenko and was apparently
written soon after he had learned of the death of Ivan Kotlyarevsky
which took place in 1838. Kotlyarevsky with his parody of the _Aeneid_
published in 1798 had commenced the modern Ukrainian literature in the
vernacular. He had transformed Aeneas and his companions into typical
exiled Ukrainian Kozaks and had used every opportunity to call back
memories of the past. It was a frivolous but yet absolutely serious
piece of work and it aroused an interest in Ukrainian history and
manners that had been long forgotten. Kotlyarevsky followed his poem in
after years with the first Ukrainian dramas of peasant life, _Natalka
Poltavka_ and _Moskal Charyvnyk_. These two became popular and the
young Shevchenko on receiving the news of the death of the poet poured
out his lamentation that the one great Ukrainian poet had passed away.
It is a sincere tribute to the founder of the literature from the man
who was to be its greatest exponent. There is the same mixture of
elements of nature and of history that the poet was to employ so often
later and it marks that union of social and historical themes under the
influence of which Shevchenko began his work.
+To the Eternal Memory of Kotlyarevsky+
Warm’s the sun, the breeze is blowing
From the field to valley,
O’er the water bend the willows
With the red kalyna.
In a bush all solitary
There’s a nest a-swaying.
Where’s the nightingale a-straying?
Ask it not, it knows not!
For the evil, it is absent.
It is gone and perished
For the good, their heart is pining.
Why did it not stay here?
So I look and think about it;
When the eve was coming
It would sing in the kalyna.
No one could ignore it:
For the rich who had good fortune
Like a loving mother,
Would steal up and look upon it,
Never pass, unseeing;
And the orphan who at dawning
Rose to go to labor,
Would awake and listen to it,
As if his dear parents
Were alive and talking to him,
And his heart beat gaily,
And the world seemed like an Easter,
People all were people;
Or the maiden seeking daily
For her lover’s coming,
Pines away just as an orphan,
Knows not where to seek him,
Goes to wander o’er the pathway,
Weeping ’mid the thicket,
Then the nightingale would warble,
Stop her bitter weeping.
She would listen and then smiling,
Walk through the dark thicket,
As if she spoke to her lover.
And the bird was singing.
So softly, so calmly, as if he were praying,
Until a foul villain came out to do harm
With knife in his boot-top--his steps echo dully,
They come and they stop; but the song’s to no purpose.
It cannot restrain the cruel heart of the villain.
He ruins his voice, but can teach nothing good.
Let him go on raging, until he shall perish,
Until the crow caws with hoarse voice at his death.
The vale will sleep; in the kalyna
The nightingale sleeps too.
The wind blows softly through the valley,
The echo passes in the grove.
The echo, like God’s voice, is fading,
The poor arise to go to work,
The cows come out into the thicket,
The maidens after water come,
The sun is shining--all seems happy!
The willow smiles--and all is good.
The villain weeps, the savage villain.
It was so once--now look and see:
Warm’s the sun, the breeze is blowing
From the field to valley,
O’er the water bend the willows
With the red kalyna.
In a bush all solitary
There’s a nest a-swaying.
Where’s the nightingale a-straying?
Ask it not; it knows not!
So recently, recently here, in Ukraina
The old Kotlyarevsky sang sweetly to us;
The poor man is silent, has left just as orphans
The mountains and sea, where he formerly dwelt,
Where he led his bands of outcasts,
Taking them to travel,
All is left, and all is saddened,
As Troy’s ancient ruins.
All is grieving--but his glory
Like the sun is shining,
For the kobzar dies not. Glory
Ever will proclaim him.
Father, you will reign forever,
While mankind is living.
While the sun shines in the heavens,
Men will not forget you.
O spirit most righteous! accept my poor tribute,
Accept it as stupid and yet as sincere!
Leave me not an orphan as you left the forest,
Fly to me and help me, if but for one moment,
And sing to me songs of my own dear Ukraine.
O grant that my soul may yet smile in its exile,
May smile even once, as it hears how you brought
The whole Kozak glory in words so appealing
Into the poor hut where an orphan did dwell.
Fly here, O gray eagle, for I am an orphan
Alone in the world, in a land that is strange;
I look at the sea which is deep and far spreading,
And seek to go over it--there is no boat!
I think of Aeneas, I think of my country,
I think and I weep, as a child that is grieving.
The waves come and roar and they break over there,
And perhaps I am dull and there’s naught that I notice,
Perhaps a bad fate on that side is a-weeping?
The orphan is mocked by all people he meets!
Let them keep on mocking, for there the sea’s playing,
For there is the moon, and the sun brighter shines,
The grave with the wind on the steppe is conversing;
Were I with them there, I’d be no more alone.
O spirit most righteous! accept my poor tribute,
Accept it as stupid and yet as sincere!
Leave me not an orphan as you left the forest,
Fly to me and help me, if but for one moment,
And sing to me songs of my own dear Ukraine!
+Dumka+
Water flows into the blue sea,
But it never leaves it.
A young Kozak seeks his fortune,
Seeks, but does not find it.
He has gone where chance has beckoned,
Where the sea is playing,
And his Kozak heart is playing,
But his thoughts arouse him:
“Where have you not gone, a stranger?
To what hands entrusting
Father and your aged mother
And your smiling sweetheart?
People there are not your family,
Life with them is very hard.
With them there you cannot weep,
Cannot freely talk.”
Far from home the Kozak’s sitting,
While the sea is playing,
Thinking, he will find good fortune
But he meets with sorrow.
And the cranes hie homeward swiftly
In their ordered row.
Weeps the Kozak,--on life’s pathway
Piercing thorns have grown.