Where is our rose, friends?
Tell if ye may!
Faded the rose, friends,
The Dawn-child of Day.
Ah, do not say,
Such is youth's fleetness!
Ah, do not say,
Thus fades life's sweetness!
No, rather say,
I mourn thee, rose--farewell!
Now to the lily-bell
Flit we away.
* * * * *
Among the thousand-and-one compositions, in all languages, founded upon
the sublime theme of the downfall and death of Napoleon, there are, we
think, very few which have surpassed, in weight of thought, in splendour
of diction, and in grandeur of versification, Púshkin's noble lyric upon
this subject. The mighty share which Russia had in overthrowing the
gigantic power of the greatest of modern conquerors, could not fail of
affording to a Russian poet a peculiar source of triumphant yet not too
exulting inspiration; and Púshkin, in that portion of the following ode
in which he is led more particularly to allude to the part played by his
country in the sublime drama, whose catastrophe was the ruin of
Bonaparte's blood-cemented empire, has given undeniable proof of his
possessing that union of magnanimity and patriotism, which is not the
meanest characteristic of elevated genius. While the poet gives full way
to the triumphant feelings so naturally inspired by the exploits of
Russian valour, and by the patient fortitude of Russian policy, he
wisely and nobly abstains on indulging in any of those outbursts of
gratified revenge and national hatred which deform the pages of almost
all--poets, and even historians--who have written on this colossal
subject.