‘Poltava!’ is repeated:
Thy foes have thrown their sabres down,
Thee, all the world has greeted.
What! Robbers, would ye build your throne
Upon our cities’ ruin?
Thy horse and rider fell--begone!
For vengeance is pursuing.
Go hide thee in thy native woods,
There thy ambition smother;
Fate drives thee to their solitudes,
Yes! thou, the rebel’s[4] brother.
Who is that white-hair’d hero, who
That northern more than Roman?
His penetrating glance looks through
The phalanx of the foeman:
From yonder clouds what shadowy rows
Are tow’rds his footsteps turning?
The spirits of the Alpine snows
Are wailing loud and mourning.
Franks and Sarmatians, at his view,
Death’s icy paleness borrow;
Well they may fear him--well may rue--
It is the great Suvorov!
Hail! sons of ages long gone by!
Your glories are recorded;
We follow you to victory,
Like you to be rewarded.
We see your ranks--they lead us on--
The foe retreats before us;
We scatter death, as ye have done,
While ye are smiling o’er us.
Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate
We look to our Creator!
‘And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor.’
WARRIORS.
Draw swords, fill glasses, then, elate,
Look to our great Creator!
‘And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor.’
MINSTREL.
This glass then to our country’s joys,
Ne’er may our hearts feel colder;
The scenes of mirth while we were boys,
Of love, when we grew older!
Our country’s plains, our country’s sky,
The streams that flow beneath it;
The memories of infancy,
And all the thoughts that wreath it
With joyous hopes and visions blest--
Dear shrine of our affection,
How glows our heart, how beats our breast,
When beams the recollection.
That is our country, there our home,
There wife and babes attend us;
And oft their prayers towards us roam,
And oft to Heaven commend us!
There dwell our plighted, chosen ones;
How bright their memory flashes!
Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones,
And there our fathers’ ashes.
For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our land’s undying love
In our sons’ breasts awaken!
WARRIORS.
For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our country’s fadeless love
In our sons’ breasts awaken!
MINSTREL.
Now to the Tzar that rules the Russ,
And be his sceptre glorious;
His throne an altar is to us--
We swear to be victorious.
The oath is heard--’tis stamp’d in blood--
’Tis sworn--there’s no returning;
Our swords shall make our promise good,
Our hearts with love are burning.
Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty’s ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne’er among us.
WARRIORS.
Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty’s ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne’er among us.
MINSTREL.
Now to the chiefs that lead us on,
The captains that we cherish;
In life, in death, conjoin’d as one,
And heaven for those who perish:
That heaven where all, all holy is,
All love, and peace, and union,
And courage, dignity, and bliss,
In undisturb’d communion.
This stormy world we look beyond,
To that serene though far-land;
Here danger is our common bond,
And glory is our garland.
There sit the wreath-crown’d chiefs who led
Our fathers long before us;
Their shield of strength shall guard our head,
Their voices thunder o’er us:
On us their wakening smiles descend,
Their frowns our foes pursuing;
Yes! through their ranks what terrors blend,
And threaten them with ruin!
But they shall lead our warriors through,
Amidst the battle’s raging;
Death quits his terrors in our view,
When with the foe engaging.
Hail! martial hero! chief in fight[5],
Thou with the ringlets hoary,
Who, like an eagle, takest thy flight
Midst storm and thunder’s glory.
His furrow’d, weather-beaten brow
Attracts the inquiry curious;
How cold and calm before the foe,
But in his rage how furious!
O wonder! from heaven’s halls there flew
A glorious eagle o’er him[6];
He bow’d his head--what shouts! they knew
That victory was before him.
Fly to our fathers! eagle fly,
And tell them we are speeding
To fame, to glorious victory,
Our hoary chieftain leading.
He, strong in council, cool in fray,
In every purpose steady;
Well known to him is triumph’s way,
His wisdom ever ready.
Were Moskva’s glories razed in vain,
Our country’s trophies riven?
No! Russia stands erect again,
For we are here--and heaven!
Hail! hail, ye martial leaders all!
Jermolov, valiant Roman!
Friend of the brave, and valour’s wall,
And terror of the foeman.
Rajevsky, thou the chief ador’d!
Amidst the strife we found thee
Baring thy bosom to the sword,
With thy young sons around thee.
Hail! Milorádovich! to thee;
The field of battle’s thunder:
Thou tearest, in thy ecstasy,
The tyrant’s chains asunder.
And thou who saved’st Petropolis,
Thou, Vittgenstein! brave leader!
Shield of thy country, and her bliss,
Thou dread of her invader!
With darkness was his vision fill’d,
When first the traitor saw thee;
Alone, but leaning on thy shield,
Numbering his ranks below thee.
Then fear came o’er that traitor’s mind,
His courage left him shatter’d;
Thy sword was drawn--and, like the wind,
His trembling ranks were scatter’d.
Hail! Konovnizin! thou our joy!
From danger absent never:
Where bullets whiz, and arrows fly,
There have we found thee ever.
Before--behind--around him--we
Saw terror, death, and danger:
He stood, in his serenity,
To all alarm a stranger.
Himself forgotten--see him bear
Down on those ranks of slavery;
And valour’s self stood wond’ring there--
He was the god of bravery.
And thou, Platov! thou storm of fight,
Thou Ataman the Lion!
Thy busy lance--thy sling of might,
Scathe--scatter all they fly on.
A wild wolf broken from his lair--
An eagle on stretch’d pinion:--
Death whispering in the foeman’s ear,
Throughout thy wide dominion.
Amidst the woods his torches fly--
How spreads the conflagration!
Bridges oppose--in dust they lie--
Towns--all is desolation!
Hail! Nestor Benningsen, to thee!
Nought can thy mind inveigle;
Hero and sage--to enemy
A serpent and an eagle.
And hail! Woronzov! young and gay,
Though ripen’d by discretion.
And Tormassov! in battles gray,
The flying foe’s oppression.
And Baggovuth[7], with heart of mail,
Waving his sabre o’er ye.
Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail!
Our country’s pride and glory!
WARRIORS.
Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail!
Our country’s pride and glory!
MINSTREL.
Now, brothers! hallow those who died,
Those from the strife departed;
Their place is vacant by our side,
Before us they have started.
No more shall they disperse the foe,
Or hear the battle’s thunder;
Their hearts no more with rapture glow--
They sleep in silence under.
Their sword, their shield, are on the ground,
Where damp and rust shall eat them;
Their proud war-horses wander round,
Without a friend to greet them.
O Kulinev! the brave, the strong!
Upon thy shield reclining,
Thou diedst amidst the battle throng,
While thy bright sword was shining.
Thou diedst e’en where thy childhood pass’d[8]
In happiest visions o’er thee;
And thou hast made thy grave at last
Where first thy cradle bore thee:
And sure thy latest sigh was blest,
For faith’s best hopes thou keepedst;
That last sigh sought thy mother’s breast--
Reach’d heaven--and then thou sleepedst.
And where, Kutaissov![9] tell us where
Thou in thy bloom alightest?
His heart, his countenance were clear
As virtue when ’tis brightest;
He threw him in the battle ring--
Death dropt its mantle o’er him:
He touch’d the sweet harp’s sweetest string;
Let every string deplore him!
His steed approaches, dyed with gore--
Where is the hand to guide her?
His shield is there, blood-clotted o’er--
The shield--but not the rider.
Where are thy ashes, in what vale,
What unknown cavern hidden?
For they are sought o’er hill and dale
By a heart-broken maiden.
There lovelier shines the morning dew,
The sun is brighter glowing;
The breezes they are gentler too,
More fair the flowrets blowing!
And angel forms at midnight come,
When mortal eyes are sleeping;
Their silent watch around thy tomb
In mild devotion keeping.
And thou, Bagration![10] tears were shed,
And prayers for thee ascended:--
’Twas all in vain, for thou art dead--
Thy hero-race is ended.
From rank to rank our warriors sigh’d,
‘God’s mercy shall restore him!’
And oft our foes, despairing, cried,
‘We yet shall fly before him!’
Nay! nay! that noble soul is gone,
That generous heart is riven;
To join Suvorov, he is flown;--
To all the brave in heaven.
Shades of our heroes! ye are blest,
Ye roam in Eden’s gardens,
Where time’s departed chieftains rest,
And angels are the wardens.
Your memory still has left its blaze,
Its holy beamings reach us;
A light which flows to distant days,
How brave men died to teach us.
Your names still mount above your graves,
Your glories we inherit;
And every unfurl’d flag that waves
Is pregnant with your spirit.
WARRIORS.
Your names still soar above your graves,
Your glories we inherit;
And every unfurl’d flag that waves
Is pregnant with your spirit.
MINSTREL.
One glass to vengeance! In the fray
‘Heaven for the right!’ our voices,
And ‘death or victory!’ proudly say;
And victory’s self rejoices.
O count not on your numbers, foe!
In vain ye boast your numbers;
Our march is like the torrent’s flow,
Which never, never slumbers.
We have no treasures, but we bring
Our arrows and our lances,
And round us desolation fling--
And death is in our glances.
The Robber! he had spread his power
Around our Moskva’s borders;
And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower
He issued forth his orders.
‘I trample on the base-born clay,
‘Which folly’s pride assembles,
‘And prince and subject both obey.’
Insulting one!--he trembles.
For vengeance wakes her from her rest,
And arms her with her torches;
Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast,
And drives him from our porches.
Now bring thy slavish princes, now,
To our ice-girded nation;
And lead them o’er our paths of snow
To horror and starvation.
Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed,
And close our country’s portals--
O see! he strews the land with dead,
With piles of frozen mortals.
Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own--
God’s vengeance, wretch! is near thee.
WARRIORS.
Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own--
And God’s revenge is near thee!
MINSTREL.
One glass to friendship’s glory lend,
That makes all sorrows lighter--
O happy he who owns a friend!
Heaven has no blessing brighter.
Our joys to swell, our griefs to share,
While by life’s storms we’re driven,
Our conscience to direct us here,
Our friendly staff for heaven.
O be _the sacred bond_[11] our guide,
Our law, and our allegiance!
’Tis by our life-blood sanctified,
And we have sworn obedience.
WARRIORS.
O be _the sacred bond_ our guide,
Our law, and our allegiance!
’Tis by our life-blood sanctified,
And we have sworn obedience.
MINSTREL.
And _this_ to Love!--and break it too--
Its flame shines ever purely!
For love’s sweet smile, and glory’s glow,
They are twin-sisters surely.
For he whom Heaven has train’d and taught,
By love’s soft step attended,
Whose thought still meets another’s thought,
While heart with heart is blended--
He is the hero--doubt or fear
Ne’er enter in his bosom--
For doth he not the garland wear
Of which love wreathed the blossom?
O love! thou art our morning star;
How oft our steps thou meetest!
Thy gay light glances, bright and far--
Thy songs of all are sweetest:
Thy breath oft waves our banners high,
And to the fight thou guidest;
Thou smilest on our victory,
And o’er our dreams presidest.
Look, foeman! on our battle shield,
Our hearts’ love was the giver;
’Twas she who wrote upon its field,
‘Thine--even in death--for ever!’
Fond dreams, which fancy clads in all
The beauties love can borrow!
She sits behind yon garden wall
Communing with her sorrow.
Her plaints, her prayers, to heaven ascend,
To thee her thoughts are flying--
Now tears, now smiles, embalm her friend,
‘Ah! perhaps my friend is dying!
When shall I hear his accents--when
Will fly these days so dreary?
O dawn, sweet morn of joy, again,
For I am well nigh weary.’
O friends! it is a pride to die
For those whose faith is plighted;
Their love is ever hovering nigh,
And we may die delighted.
Their name upon our lips shall hang,
While the death-wound is burning;--
And it shall soothe the parting pang,
While to earth’s bosom turning.
The memory of the maid we love
Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten,
And seek with us the world above,
Its mansions to enlighten.
WARRIORS.
The memory of the maid we love
Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten--
We’ll bear it to the world above,
Its mansions to enlighten.
MINSTREL.
Now to the Muse the red-grape press--
The Muse, whose voice of thunder
Gives courage, energy, success,
And tears fear’s chains asunder:--
The arrows fly--and young and old
With shield and sabre arm them--
Midst the death-shower they throw them bold,
For nothing can alarm them.
The minstrel’s song has touch’d their soul,
And valour’s tears are breaking,
While hoary age bursts time’s control,
And youthful strength is waking.
Pride of the elder time, Bojan![12]
Whose harp, though lost to story,
Led on the brave Sclavonian
With hymns of praise and glory!
Thy songs prophetic did proclaim
Peter the Great, the glorious:
Petrov sang Saidunaisky’s name:
Derzhavin’s lyre victorious
Its tones of joy and music flung,
Forest of Kama, o’er thee:
Suvorov, thee Derzhavin sung,
Hero of poet worthy.
Old man! O could we hear again
Thy swan-like tones to bless us!
Thou sangst not idle glory’s strain,
But vengeance to redress us.
And not for conquest, not for fame,
Thy lyre of passion pleaded--
’Twas struggling for an unstain’d name,
Revenge for rights invaded.
Sing, swan! thy song the chain will break
Which many a land surrounded;
And Slavery’s threatenings wax them weak
Where thy proud notes are sounded.
O honour then the Muses’ sons!
And I--though mean and lowly:--
Would that my lyre’s awaken’d tones
Were all inspired and holy!
In the deep valley’s loneliness
That humble lyre was shrouded:
I heard a voice, ‘To battle press!’
And to the combat crowded.
Farewell, then, music--joy, farewell!
I sped me to the battle:
My song--the trumpets’ piercing swell;
My choir--the cannons’ rattle.
Yet will I sing the Robber’s fall,
And your bright deeds, elated;
For even now some whizzing ball
Perchance with death is fated.
But could my dying hour disperse
The dreams I loved to cherish?
And crush the spirit of my verse
With my faint name to perish?
The robber to his fame hath built
A pile of bloodstain’d iron;
And there your glory and his guilt
Time’s records shall environ.
WARRIORS.
Then welcome be the sons of song,
Who bid our victories blossom;
And as our fathers pass along
With triumph fills their bosom.
MINSTREL.
Your glasses:--To the God of Might,
Bend on your knees before him:
He led you to the glorious fight,
And saved you--now adore him!
The shield of virtue is his rod,
He saves the poor and lowly;
The rock of ages is our God--
He scathes the proud one’s folly.
Look to the glorious realms above,
Where not a tear e’er started;
And hear from thence that voice of love,
‘My children! be strong hearted!’
O immortality! thou sea
Of silence--peaceful portal!
How happy who is launch’d on thee,
And straight becomes immortal!
O happy they who fall in fight!
For those they leave behind them
Seek through a long and gloomy night
The grave that might have shrined them.
The son of battle breaks the bond
Which to the vain world ties him;
Soars to a brighter world beyond,
Where misery never tries him.
But we?--O let us trust in God,
Whate’er our portion given,
To lead us through life’s darksome road
To happiness and heaven:
Obedient to his holy will,
Scattering all sin before us;
And gently moving forward still,
Till darkness gathers o’er us.
If low our lot--a courage free;
If high--no scornful blindness;
In strength and power--simplicity;
And universal kindness.
Ready obedience where ’tis due--
Our oaths--a sacred token!
To love unshaken, fervent, true,
And friendship’s pledge--unbroken.
To those who sink--a ready hand,
And comfort to the mourning;
For tyrants--valour to withstand,
For treachery--hate and scorning.
The blaze of truth to shame a lie;
All honest faith--befriended;
And in death’s fight--calm bravery,
And peace--when all is ended.
O God of might! be thou our shield,
Our squadrons lead and rally!
Rider and horse to thee must yield,
And perish in the valley.
O God! in our behalf appear--
Our foemen’s ranks be broken;
Come, day of vengeance, dark and drear!
And lo! the Lord has spoken.
I saw him numerous as the sand
Spread over hills and plains there;
He waved his bright and murderous brand,
And now--no trace remains there.
WARRIORS.
I saw him numerous as the sand
Spread over hills and plains there;
He waved his bright and murderous brand,
And now--no trace remains there.
MINSTREL.
But look! the clouds are brightening now,
The daylight is appearing;
See! o’er the distant mountain’s brow
The morning star uprearing.
The twilight breaks--the vapours damp
The hills are now surrounding;
And lo! the slumber-girded camp,
And morning-music sounding.
But soon--but soon--as hours return,
That band so calmly sleeping,
Shall fate--her hand is on the urn--
Shall fate prepare for weeping!
O dawn thee not--let darkness try
Thy waking beams to smother!
For ah! to-day shall many an eye
Mourn o’er a perish’d brother.
Vain prayer--along the mountain’s height
I hear the thunder roaring;
Shouts from the plain announce the fight,
The sun tow’rds heaven is soaring:
The war-steeds rage and foam--anon
The shock of arms engaging--
The chieftain leads his soldiers on,
And hearts with fire are raging.
This is no time for wine nor song!
Come, to the battle hurry!
With naked sabre join the song,
For death or triumph’s glory!
Yes! ye who love us far away,
Farewell! and if for ever,
Preserve the memory of the day,
And O forget us never!
Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove--
Beloved, one sacred greeting:
Here--tender and undying love,
There--an eternal meeting!
WARRIORS.
Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove--
Beloved, one sacred greeting:
Here--tender and undying love,
There--an eternal meeting!
CATHERINE[13].
_SVÆTLANA._
St. Silvester’s evening hour
Calls the maidens round:
Shoes to throw behind the door,
Delve the snowy ground.
Peep behind the window there,
Burning wax to pour;
And the corn for chanticleer
Reckon three times o’er.
In the water-fountain fling
Solemnly the golden ring,
Earrings too of gold;
Kerchief white must cover them
While we are chanting over them
Magic songs of old.
Feebly through the vapours shine
Moonbeams on the hill;
Silently sat Catherine,
Sorrowful and still.
‘Maiden, why so pensive? we
Fain thy voice would hear--
Come and join our revelry!
Take the ring, thou dear!
Sing ‘Make haste and melt, and bring,
‘Goldsmith! come with golden ring,
‘Golden wreath for Kate!
‘Ring to deck her hand of snow,
‘Wreath to bloom upon her brow
‘At the altar-gate.’
I can sing no choral song
While my love’s away;
For my days are sad and long,
Gloomier every day.
Left alone--a year is past--
Not a line to send--
O my life is but a waste,
Sever’d from my friend!
Hast thou then forgotten me?
Tell me, wanderer! can it be?
Where’s thy dwelling--where?
See, I pine ’neath secret smart:
Guardian angel! watch my heart--
Listen to my prayer!
Cover’d with a napkin white,
Stood a table there;
Where a mirror, clear and bright,
Shone amidst the glare.
Vacant seats for two were placed--
‘Look within, O look!
’Tis the hour of spirits--haste!
Read Fate’s opening book:
To the mirror turn thy eye,
And the door shall silently
Open--List! ’tis he!
Gently shall thy lover glide,
Seat him by his maiden’s side,
And shall sup with thee.’
Cath’rine sat before the glass--
All alone was she,
Watching all the shades that pass,
Shuddering inwardly.
But the glass is dark and drear,
Still as death the room;
Scarce a fading taper there
Flitted midst the gloom.
O how fear her bosom shook!
Backwards then she dared not look!
Dread had dimm’d her sight:
And the dying tapers’ noise,
And the cricket’s chirping voice,
Cried--’tis middle-night!
Breathless terror chill’d her o’er,
And she shades her brow:--
List! a knock is at the door,
And it opens now:
To the mirror then she turn’d,
Stupefied with fear;
Their two brilliant eyeballs burn’d,
Ever bent on her.
Horror heaved her breast, when lo!
Gentle accents, sweet and slow,
Glided on her ear:
‘All thy wishes are fulfill’d--
All thy spirit’s sighs be still’d--
’Tis thy lover, dear!’
Cath’rine look’d--her lover’s arms
Were around her thrown:
‘Maiden! banish all alarms,
We are ever one!
Come! the priest is waiting now,
Life with life to blend;
Torches in the chapel glow,
Bridal songs ascend.’
Cath’rine smiled--her lover led--
O’er the snow-clad court they sped,
And the portals gain;
There a ready sledge they found--
Two fleet coursers stamp the ground,
Struggling with the rein.
Onwards! like the winds they go,
When the storm awakes;
Scattering round them clouds of snow,
While the pathway shakes.
All was dark and wild as night,
Terrible, and new:
Mist-wreaths dimm’d the pale moon’s light,
Plains were drench’d in dew.
Fear again possess’d the maid,
And in gentlest tones she said,
‘Speak--my lover true!’
He was silent then--but soon
Turn’d him to the wintry moon,--
Pale and paler grew.
Through the snow--a mountain’s height--
Next the wild steeds pass’d;
And a church appear’d in sight,
’Midst a gloomy waste:
Then a whirlwind burst the door--
Men are there who mourn;
Clouds of incense rolling o’er,
Waxen tapers burn.
Lo! a black sepulchral shroud--
‘Dust to dust!’ the priest aloud
Chants--the horses flew
Tow’rds the door--her agony
Rose--he spoke no word--but he
Pale and paler grew.
Clouds of snow ascend again--
Lo! the coursers fly;
And a raven on the plain
Croaks, and passes by;
’Twas an awful, ominous sound!
And the moonlight wanes;
Darkness wraps the desert round
O’er the steaming manes.
See! a glimmering light is there,
And upon the heather bare
Stands a humble shed.
Swifter--swifter flew the car,
Whirl’d the snow around it far,
But no farther sped.
At the door they stopp’d anon,
There--a moment stood:--
Steeds--sledge--bridegroom--all are gone:
All is solitude.
Catherine on the waste was left,
Midst dense clouds of snow;
Of her lover now bereft,
To commune with woe:
But she hears a footstep now,
Turns, and sees a taper glow;
Crosses her, and stalks
Trembling to the door--and knocks:--
Of itself the door unlocks--
In the maiden walks.
There, upon a winding sheet,
Lay a mortal bier;
Christ’s bright image at its feet
Shone resplendent there.
Whither--whither art thou come,
Maiden, all unblest?
Thou hast sought a wretched home,
Art a hapless guest!
Catherine to the image flies,
Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes,
Bends her down and weeps;
Presses to her breast the cross--
Thoughts of heaven her soul engross,
And she silence keeps.
All is still!--The storm is hush’d,
Faint the tapers beam,
Light across the chamber rush’d--
Momentary gleam:--
All is wrapt in silence deep
As when visions come.
List! what gentle rustlings sweep
Through the hallow’d room:
Lo! a dove of silvery white,
Soft and still, with eyes of light,
Tow’rds the mourner springs:
For a moment hovers there,
Then upon her bosom fair
Flaps his beauteous wings.
Silence reign’d again.--Can all,
All illusion be?
Lo! the corpse beneath the pall
Shudders fearfully:
Bursts the mantling bier of death,
Throws his shroudings by:
On his brow he wore a wreath,
Frozen was his eye:
From his lips a murmur breaks,
With his hand a sign he makes,
Pointing to the maid:
Trembling she--she dared not move--
But the bright and silver dove
On her bosom play’d.
Fann’d her with its gentle wing:--
To the dead man’s breast
Then she saw her sweet dove spring--
There it seem’d to rest.
Heaved that icy corpse a sigh,
As in dark despair,
Gnash’d his teeth in agony,
Turn’d his eyes on her.
Paler wax’d those lips so pale;
And the fix’d eye told the tale
That life’s film was broke.
Catherine! lift thy drooping head!
All is o’er--thy lover’s dead!--
God!----and she awoke.