O'er the Neva gaily dancing,
Flag and pennant flutter fair;
From the boats, in line advancing,
Oars-men's chorus fills the air.
Loud and joyous guests assembling,
Throng the palace of the Tsar;
And to cannon-crash is trembling
All the Neva from afar.
Wherefore feasts our Tsar of Wonders?
Why is Petersburg so gay?
Why those shouts and cannon-thunders,
And the fleet in war array?
Is new glory dawning o'er ye,
Russia's Eagle, Russia's Sword?
Has the stern Swede fled before ye?
Has the foe for peace implored?
Is it Brandt's slight boat, appearing
On the shore that _was_ the Swede's?
Through our young fleet proudly steering
Like a _grandame_ she proceeds.
They, her giant-brood, seem kneeling
'Fore their grandame--black and grim;
And to Science' name are pealing
Cannon-crash and choral hymn.
Is't Poltava, red and glorious,
That he feasts--the Lord of War?
When his Empire's life, victorious,
Saved from Charles the Russian Tsar?
Greet they Catharine's saint, those thunders?
Hath she given a Prince to life?
Of our Giant-Tsar of Wonders,
She, the raven-tressed wife?
No! a Subject's crime remitting,
To the guilty, guilt he sinks;
By a Subject's side he's sitting,
From a Subject's cup he drinks:
And his brow he kisses, smiling,
Gay of heart, and bright of eye;
And he feasts a Reconciling
Like some mighty Victory.
Hence those shouts of joy and wonder;
Hence is Petersburg so gay;
Hence the songs and cannon-thunder,
And the fleet in war array;
Hence the guests in joy assembling;
Hence the full cup of the Tsar;
Hence, with cannon-crash, is trembling
All the Neva from afar.
* * * * *
The following lines (which are not without a kind of fantastic
prettiness of their own) do not seen to need any remark or explanation,
unless it be the circumstance of the poet's qualifying the sky of St
Petersburg with the epithet of _pale-green_. It may be observed that
this peculiar tint (exactly enough expressed by the adjective) has
struck almost all the strangers who have visited the northern capital,
and has been repeatedly noticed by travellers; as, for instance, Kohl,
Custine, &c. &c. Our readers will find the singular colour of the St
Petersburg atmosphere (particularly observable in the winter, or at
night) very well described in Sir George Lefevre's amusing "Notes of a
Travelling Physician." This greenish tint is as peculiar to the banks of
the Neva, as is the reddish-black to the neighbourhood of Birmingham or
the Potteries; or the yellowish-brown (in November--"let rude ears be
absent!") to the environs of the Thames:--
"TOWN OF STARVING, TOWN OF SPLENDOUR!"
Town of starving, town of splendour,
Dulness, pride, and slavery;
Skyey vault of pale-green tender,
Cold, and granite, and _ennui_!
With a pang, I say adieu t'ye
With a pang, though slight--for there
Trips the foot of _one_ young beauty,
Waves _one_ tress of golden hair.
* * * * *
In the short and rapid sketch of Pushkin's life and writings which will
be found prefixed to this selection, we made particular mention of the
strong impression produced upon the Russian public by the appearance of
the noble lines addressed to the _Sea_. We beg to subjoin a translation
of this short but vigorous poem, which has become classical in the
author's country; an honour it certainly deserves, not only from the
simple grace and energy of the language, but from the weight, dignity,
and verity of the thoughts. The lines were written by the poet on his
quitting the shores of the Caspian, where he had so long dwelt in
solitude, gathering inspiration from the sublime Nature by which he was
surrounded; and the poem cannot but be considered as a worthy outpouring
of the feelings which a long communion with that Nature was so capable
of communicating to a mind like that of Pushkin. Of the two great men
whose recent death was naturally recalled to the poet's recollection by
the view of the ocean, the name of one--Napoleon--is specifically
mentioned; that of the other is--Byron. Seldom, in the prosecution of
his difficult but not ungrateful task, has the translator felt the
imperfection of his art, or the arduous nature of its object, more
keenly than when attempting to give something like an adequate version
of the eleventh and twelfth stanzas of this majestic composition. In
order to give some idea of the fidelity of his imitation, we will
subjoin the literal English of these eight lines:--
He vanish'd, wept by liberty,
Leaving to the world his crown.
Roar, swell with storm-weather;
He was, O sea, thy bard!
Thine image was stamp'd upon him,
He was created in thy spirit;
Like thee, mighty, deep, and gloomy,
Like thee, untameable!