Where the mirror stood:--
Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom
With its golden flood;
Chanticleer had flapp’d his wings,
Sung his early song:
All is bright--the matin rings--
O thy dream was long!
Long indeed, and dreadful too;
And my spirit long shall rue
The dread prophecy!
Tell me, Future’s misty night,
Shall my fate be dark or bright,
Bliss or misery?
Catherine in the window sat,
Sorrowful and still:
Tell me--tell me what is _that_?
Mist-cloud on the hill?
In the sunbeams shines the snow;
Leaps the frozen dew:
List! I hear the bells below,
And the horses too.
Lo! they come--the sledge is near--
Now the Isvoshchik’s voice I hear--
They have pass’d the grove:--
Fling the gates wide open--fling--
Who’s the guest the coursers bring?
Who?--’Tis thou, my love!
Catherine, tell me now! _The dream_--
Is the dream forgot?
Youths may faithful be--who seem
Faithless--may they not?
When the light of love hath lent
Brightness to his eye;
When his lips are eloquent;--
Timid maid! reply!
Open now the temple-gate,
Spring on wings of joy elate,
Truth, we honour thee!
Pour the glass, and join the hymn,
Ne’er may days of darkness dim
Youth’s fidelity.
Thou dost smile, sweet maid! but deem,
Deem it worth a thought;
For that memorable dream
Stores of wisdom brought.
Thou dost smile again--but know,
It had lessons holy:
Fame, it told thee, was but--show;
Worldly wisdom--folly.
This my song was meant to say,
Hope and trust, should guide our way--
Maid! there’s no mistaking:
This the genuine moral seems,
Miseries--are only dreams,
Joy--is the awaking.
O my Cath’rine! never dwell
On that dream of gloom;
Heaven! build up her citadel,
There may grief ne’er come;
Not a cloud her joys o’ershade,
Not a joy decay;
Holy is that gentle maid
As the light of day.
Ne’er be it obscur’d by woe,
Let her days of comfort flow
Like a forest river;
And let joy, with smiles serene,
Be as it hath ever been,
Her bright guide for ever.
THEON AND ÆSCHINES.
To his country’s penates wends Æschines home,
To the mist-cover’d land of Alpheus;
He long had sought happiness o’er the wide world,
But happiness fled--like a shadow.
And Bacchus and Venus, and pleasure and fame,
His heart had consumed--not contented;
The blossom of life had decay’d like his soul,
And hope had been banish’d by sadness.
The stream of the wavy Alpheus appears,
Alpheus, with flower-bedeck’d borders,
And wakes all the thoughts of the days hurried by,
And of youth-tide, for ever departed!
All the banks are as fair, all the fields are as bright,
And the sky smiles delighted above him;
But where is that hope which shed o’er them a ray,
A ray of ineffable beauty?
The dwelling of Theon now Æschines seeks;--
He dwelt in a peace-girded cottage;
His wishes all bounded, and moderate his hopes--
He dwelt on the shores of Alpheus.
’Twas just where Alpheus springs into the sea,
With olive trees deck’d and plantanas,
That Æschines saw a humble abode--
It was the mean dwelling of Theon.
In the hot arch of Heaven the day-tide declined,
The calm stream of waters was glowing;
A rosy smile play’d round the humble abode,
Where the myrtles of fragrance were blooming.
A white grave of marble, with myrtle-wreaths hung,
Appears on a gentle mound rising;
Where roses of fragrance, and jasmin’s pale flowers,
Their branches entwined, interblended.
Theon sat near his hut;--he was lost in deep thought,
While he look’d on the purple-tinged billow;
Then suddenly turn’d on his Æschines--saw,
And remember’d his youthful companion.
‘To Zeus--Preserver! be honour and praise!
Again dost thou see thy penates!’
Cried Theon--while rapture shone bright in his eye,
As he Æschines press’d to his bosom.
And with glances look’d through him again and again,
His visage was troubled and gloomy:
And Æschines mournfully gazed on his friend,
His gaze it was calm, but was mournful.
‘O Theon! when first I abandon’d thee here,
Hope painted me visions of pleasure;
Far different my fate from my dreams--I have found
That hope is a faithless deceiver.
‘And tell me, my Theon, has such been thy fate,
For such doth thy visage betoken?
Have sorrow and sadness intruded on thee,
And thy peaceful, domestic penates?’
Theon groan’d in his spirit, and look’d to the grave,
‘These, these are the silent recorders,
If God lent us life to be wasted in joy--
Ah! life is the sister of sorrow.
‘O no! I complain not of Zeus’ decrees,
For life and the world beam with beauty;
But bliss that is fleeting, and dreams that are vain,
I chase not for earthly enjoyment.
‘What time can create, and what time can destroy,
Why call we our own;--it was never;--
’Tis the soul’s own possession, the spirit of love,
The thoughts that sublimely transport us.
‘These, these are true bliss!--Friend, this is no dream,
I, Æschines! loved and was happy;
’Twas love that refined and enraptured my soul--
And that taught me the pleasure of living.
‘Midst twilight sublimest conceptions appear’d,
Creation I saw in its glory,
And felt that my pilgrimage led through the world
To something far brighter above it.
‘Woe is me! for I loved--she is gone--she is gone--
And the bliss is for ever departed,
That dawn’d with such lustre--how vainly it dawn’d!
How gaily--how swiftly it faded!
‘O no! nought erases the track of the past,
In the heart it for ever endureth.
The sorrow of parting!--That, that too is love!--
And the heart loses nought of its treasure.
‘And is not the pang which e’en death leaves behind
A germ which hope, bright and eternal,
Awakes; while the known, but the mist-cover’d land,
Gives back all we loved to our mem’ry.
‘For he who has loved, and loved truly, my friend!
Can never, can never be lonely;
The world when _she_ blossom’d, with _her_ is still fill’d,
Ever present, unchang’d and immortal.
‘Alone I tread onward the path of my doom,
To its boundary sublime ever tending;
She led me--she leads me--together we toil,
’Tis the bond which not death could dissever.
‘Thoughts pure and sublime throw a charm over life!
And with ecstasy oft I look round me
On the fair face of earth, that is smiling with good,
On the wonderful, glorious creation.
‘And peaceful I turn from the markstone of death
To the visions which hail me immortal;
And hope lights with glory the dulness of earth,
As Aurora the canopied heaven.
‘’Tis hope that exalts me far, far above fate,
And hallows this earthly existence;
And the thought, the proud thought I am _man_, swells my breast
With gratitude, triumph, and glory.
‘This silent, this mystical gravestone, to me,
My friend! is a pledge and a token,
That the being which faith has depictured shall dawn
As sure as the past is departed.
‘This grave is the door--the lock’d door of delight--
Will it open?--I hope, and expect it:
On _that_ side the pris’ner is waiting, who here
For a moment was seen--and departed.
‘O friend! thou pursuest a false, fleeting good,
Thou snatchest the joy of a moment,
Thou losest the bliss that is sure and sublime,
And a life that is priceless despisest.
‘This feeling of gloom, it benightens the earth--
Give your hand!--In the bosom of friendship
Let the world, and let nature be lovely again,
For, believe me, the earth is most lovely.
‘When life was conferr’d, _all_, _all_ was conferr’d--
’Tis the path, ’tis the promise of greatness;
And sorrow and joy, they are means to that end--
Praise Zeus--O praise the Creator!’
THE BARD.
Through the dark wood seest thou that thorn-crown’d heap,
That o’er the lingering rivulet seems to rest;
Where the still stream glides by, as if in sleep,
And scarce a leaf is by the zephyr prest:
There hangs a harp--a garland, see!
That heap--it is a minstrel’s bed:
There are his ashes scattered--
Bard! woe is thee!
His soul was lovely--infant purity
Dwelt in his heart--a fleeting pilgrim, driven
By life’s first gales o’er seas of misery,
Sighing and longing for death’s silent haven--
That haven reach’d he speedily:
He sleeps death’s sleep--so dark, so dull--
His life was short, but sorrowful--
Bard! woe is thee!
He sang the song of friendship loud and sweet--
But ah! the friend is gone;--his holy strain
Breathed of pure love--’twas sad, though exquisite,
For he knew nought of love but love’s deep pain!
All slumbers now--all--silently,
Young bard! with thee--thy music’s breath
Is still--still’d by the frown of death:--
Bard! woe is thee!
Here, by this shrine, when the tir’d sun was setting
In melancholy brightness, thus he pour’d
His farewell hymn, ‘Fair world! thy charms forgetting,
‘I leave thee, and for ever!--I adored
‘A wild dream’s shade--an ecstasy!
‘’Tis past!--Thou lyre! be still--my hand
‘Is chill’d--I seek a brighter land:--
‘Bard! woe is thee!
‘That wild dream fled--what else is left?--the sky
‘O’erclouded--the storm raging--an abyss
‘Yawning around--hopes that just smile, and fly
‘To darkness--solid woes, and shadowy bliss.
‘Haven of peace! for me, for me
‘Prepare thy welcome, grave, whose road,
‘Though misty, leads to joy’s abode!
‘Bard! woe is thee!’
Yes! he is fled--that magic harp is still,
His footstep-traces now are worn away;
And sorrow dwells on stream, and vale, and hill--
And silence, save when thoughtless zephyrs play
With the dried wreath that carelessly
Hangs--or in twilight’s feeble ray
Some spirit bids the harp-strings say,
Bard! woe is thee!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Zhukovsky accompanied the Russian army from Moscow. He wrote this
piece just before the battle on the Tarutina.
[2] These words are attributed by the old Russian historians to the
great Duke Svatoslav Sgorevich, and are said to have led to one of his
most brilliant victories over the Greeks. “Let us not shame our Russian
land--Let our bones lie here--There is no disgrace in dying!”
[3] Dmitrij Ivanovich (of the Don), the saviour of his country from
Tartarian slavery. Ever since the unfortunate battle of Kalka (1223),
the hopes of redemption seemed feeble and distant. He assembled his
troops, and defeated the countless hosts of Mamai on the shores of the
Don.
[4] Mazeppa.
[5] Prince Smolensko.
[6] Before the battle of Borodino an eagle hovered round his head, and
was observed by the whole army, who set up a general shout of joy.
[7] Baggovuth was killed in the battle of the Tarutina.
[8] Near Lutzin, where he had passed his boyhood, and where his mother
yet lived.
[9] Kutaissov was a young poet of considerable talents: he was killed
at the battle of Borodino. His horse was seen wildly galloping about,
covered with blood; and his body could not be discovered for a long
time.
[10] Bagration received his mortal wound at the battle of Borodino; but
it was for a long time expected that he would recover.
[11] Holy Alliance.
[12] Of Bojan little is known. He is supposed to have accompanied the
Russians in the dark ages, and to have excited them to valour with his
magic lyre.
[13] I have adopted the word Catherine. SVÆTLANA does not easily
accommodate itself to our organs of sense.
KARAMSIN.
RAÏSSA.
In the dark night the storm-wind rages,
The gray flash trembles in the sky;
Rolls from the blackening clouds the thunder,
And rattling torrents sweep the wood.
No signs of life, of living beings,
The welcoming roof had shelter’d all,
All but one lost and lonely wanderer--
Raïssa--to the dark night bare.
Despair was seated in her bosom;
The thunder-tempest moved her not;
And even the hurricane’s loud howling
Scarce drown’d Raïssa’s heavy plaints.
Her cheek was like the faded foliage,
Her lip--th’ unwater’d, withering flow’r;
Upon her eye--a veil of darkness,
And fearful were her bosom’s throbs.
There hurried from her snowy bosom,
Which savage, thorny boughs had torn,
Of burning blood a crimson rivulet--
It fell upon the green damp ground.
Above the sea, a granite mountain
Raised proudly its gigantic head;
Raïssa scaled it, wandering lonely
Through clefts and stony pyramids.
The deep raged furiously--the lightning
Frightfully flash’d;--the mountain-waves
Roll’d, lifting up their maddening voices;
And the earth trembled as they spoke.
Raïssa look’d around--was silent:
But soon her tones of sorrow burst,
And mingled with the raging tempest--
‘Lost--lost for ever! Woe is me!
‘Kronīd--Kronīd--O cruel lover!
O whither, whither art thou fled?
Why hast thou left thy own Raïssa
Alone in such a dreadful night?
‘Kronīd--return--return--forgiveness,
Forgetfulness, shall both be thine:
No!--Thou wilt come not to Raïssa--
Why did I know thee--wherefore love?
‘My father and my mother loved me,
And fondest love was their return;
My days roll’d by, on downy pinions,
Midst harmless sports and joyous thoughts.
‘Thou didst approach me like an angel,
And, sighing, these sweet words didst say:
“I love thee--yes! I love--Raïssa!”
My parents’ love I soon forgot.
‘Transported, yet with trembling bosom,
And weeping in that dream of bliss,
Into thy opening arms I threw me,
And gave my heart alone to thee.
‘On thee reposed and dwelt my spirit,
I breathed, I lived for thee alone;
The sun in thy sweet smile was beaming,
Thou wert my present deity.
‘Why, when thy bosom beat with rapture,
Why died I not--in transports then:
Had I not seen thee false and treacherous,
How sweet, how blessed ’twere to die.
‘But ah! while thus securely dreaming
In deepest sleep, another maid
Loved and was loved--and I am banished--
Banished is thy Raïssa now.
‘I thought I lay upon his bosom--
I stretch’d my arms t’ embrace him there--
I but embraced the heedless breezes--
He was already far away.
‘The dream was fled--and I awoke me--
I call’d thee--all was still as death:
I sought thee with strain’d eye--but vainly--
My friend, my friend was no where found.
‘I hurried to a mountain-summit,
I--hapless-spirited! Kronīd
Is fled afar with his Liudmilla!
Then sank I senseless on the earth.
‘And since that miserable moment
My days, my nights in sorrow flow;
I seek thee--every where I call thee--
But never hast thou heard my voice.
‘And now the spirit-worn Raïssa
Calls on thee for the last, last time;--
For peace has left my soul for ever.--
Farewell! and be without me blest!’
So spoke Raïssa--and she threw her
Into the sea. The thunder roar’d:
The heavens announced that she had perish’d
To him that had destroy’d her there.
THE HAVEN.
When the dangerous rocks are past,
When the threatening tempests cease,
O how sweet to rest at last
In a silent port of peace!
Though that port may be unknown,
Though no chart its name may bear,
Brightly beam its lights on _one_--
Blest to find his refuge there.
There he paints the joyous band--
Friends and family--what more?
Bliss!--he cries--thou hallow’d land!
And he springs upon the shore.
Life! thou art the storm--the rock!
Death! the friendly port thou art:--
Haven from the tempest shock,
Welcoming the wanderer’s heart.
Yes! I see from yonder tomb
Promised peace and tranquil rest:
Death! my haven! I shall come,
Soothe me on thy mother-breast.
SONG OF THE GOOD TZAR.
_Pæsnya o dobrom Tzaræ._
Russia had a noble Tzar,
Sovereign honour’d wide and far;
He a father’s love enjoy’d,
He a father’s power employ’d.
And he sought his children’s bliss,
And their happiness was his:
Left for them his golden halls,
Left for them his palace walls.
He, a wanderer for them,
Left his royal diadem:
Staff and knapsack all his treasure;
Toil and danger all his pleasure.
Wherefore hath he journey’d forth,
From his glorious, sceptred north?
Flying pride, and pomp, and power;
Suffering heat, and cold, and shower.
Why?--because this noble king,
Light and truth and bliss might bring,
Spread intelligence, and pour
Knowledge out on Russia’s shore.
Wherefore would this noble king
Light and truth and virtue bring,
Spread intelligence, and pour
Knowledge out on Russia’s shore?
He would guide by wisdom’s ray
All his subjects in their way;
And while beams of glory giving,
Teach them all the arts of living.
O thou noble King and Tzar!
Earth ne’er saw so bright a star--
Tell me, have ye ever found
Such a prince the world around?
TO ----.
Where art thou lingering, tell me, thou fair one?
There where the nightingale wakes her soft music,
In the night’s darkness complaining
From the top boughs of the myrtle?
There, where in solitude murmurs the streamlet,
Gliding along its green borders unnoticed,
Soothing man’s turbulent bosom
Gently to peace and to silence?
There, where the rose in its pride and its glory
Blushes, bedew’d with the tears of the morning,
While with the breezes disporting;
Whispering its thoughts to the zephyrs?
There, where the sun first illumines the mountain--
Heights inaccessible--cloud-fashion’d palace--
Where, in the ages departed,
Spirits and gods had their dwellings?
Oft have I heard thy sweet voice gently speaking,
Oft on thy throne of bright clouds have I seen thee,
Stretch’d out my arms to embrace thee--
Ah!--I had seized but a shadow.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sing in the forest’s leafy night,
Gentle bird--unnoticed sing;
Sing in Luna’s silver light,
Tones of sorrow echoing.
Tell me why my tears are falling
Like a rivulet--tell me why
Memory, when the past recalling,
Blends thee with the days gone by?
Ah! those hallow’d friends I number,
Who upon earth’s peaceful breast
In death’s tomb of silence slumber!
Green moss decks their place of rest.
All their turfs, sweet flowers adorn them,
I am left alone to mourn them--
Still I mourn them--still regret--
Therefore like a rivulet
Flow my tears--with whom shall I
Now thy sweetest strains enjoy?
Who shall greet the spring with me?
Spring is winter--wanting thee.
Now my soul must bow, subdued,
Life has no vicissitude;
All is dark--my heart is weary--
And the world--all waste and dreary.
Tell me, lovely nightingale,
When thy gentle song will fall
On my grave? for O its breath
Is meet melody for death.
DOLGORUKOV.
THE LEGACY.
When time’s vicissitudes are ended
Be this, be this my place of rest;
Here let my bones with earth be blended,
Till sounds the trumpet of the blest.
For here, in common home, are mingled
Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled;
And those whom fortune--fame pass’d by:
All mingled--and all mouldering;--folly
And wisdom--mirth and melancholy--
Slaves--tyrants--all mixt carelessly.
List! ’tis the voice of time--Creation’s
Unmeasured arch repeats the tone;
Look! even like shadows, mighty nations
Are born--flit by us--and are gone!
See! children of a common father,
See stranger-crowds, like vapors gather;
Sires--sons--descendants--come and go:
Sad history! Yet even there the spirit
Some joys may build--some hopes inherit,
And wisdom gather flowers from woe.
There, like a bee-swarm, round the token
Of unveil’d truth, shall sects appear,
And evil’s poisonous sting be broken
In the bright glance of virtue’s spear.
And none shall ask--What dormitory
Was this man’s doom--what robes of glory
Wore he--what garlands crown’d his brow--
Was pomp his slave?--Come, now discover
The heart, the soul--Delusion’s over--
What was his _conduct_?--Answer now!
Where stands yon hill-supported tower,
By Fili, shall I wake again,
Summon’d to meet Almighty Power
In judgment--like my fellow men.
I shall be there--and friends and brothers--
Sisters and children--fathers, mothers,--
With joy that never shall decay;
The soul, substantial blessings beaming,
(All here is shadowy and seeming)
Drinks bliss--no time can sweep away.
Friends, on my brow, that rests when weary,
Erect no proud and pompous pile:
Your monuments are vain and dreary,
Their splendour cannot deck the vile.
A green grave, by no glare attended,
With other dust and ashes blended,
O let my dust and ashes lie;
There, as I sleep, time, never sleeping,
Shall gather ages to his keeping,
For such is nature’s destiny.
My wife, my children shall inherit
All I possess’d--’twas mine--’tis theirs;
For death, that steals the living spirit,
Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs.
Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow,
No garments of the raven borrow;
’Tis idle charge--’tis costly pride.
Be gay, through rain or frosty weather,
Nor gather idle priests together
To chaunt my humble grave beside.
Cry, orphans!--cry, ye poor!--imploring
The everlasting God, that _He_
May save me when I sink--adoring--
Amidst his boundless mercy-sea.
My blessing to my foes be given,
Their curses far from me be driven,
Nor break upon my hallow’d bliss;
God needs no studied words from mortals,
A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals--
He could not err--He taught us this.
No songs, no elegy--death hearkens
To music ne’er though sweet it be:
When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens,
Then let oblivion shadow me.
No verse will soften Hades’ sadness,
No verse can break on Eden’s gladness,
’Tis all parade, and shifting glare:--
A stream--where scatter’d trees are growing,
A secret tear--in silence flowing--
No monument as these so fair.
Such slumber here--their memory flashes
Across my thoughts.--Hail--Sister! hail--
I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes,
And soon shall share thy mournful tale.
Thou hast paid thy earthly debts--’tis ended--
Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended,
The circle of thy being run;
And now in peace thy history closes,
And thy still’d, crumbling frame reposes
Where life’s short, feverish play is done.
I live and toil--my thoughts still follow
The idle world:--my cares pursue
Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow,
And vanities still false though new.
Then fly I earthly joys--I find them
Leave terror-working stings behind them:
‘Beware! beware!’ experience cries;
Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty,
One smile of yonder flattering beauty
Would make me waste even centuries.
BATIUSHKOV.
TO F. F. KOKOSHKIN,
ON THE DEATH OF HIS BRIDE.
Ah! the flower is dead--the beauty is departed--
All is fled we cherished;
Love and Friendship, weep! Weep, Hymen, broken-hearted!
Happiness is perished.
Friendship! thy swift hands, with smiles and joys, array’d her
In her living glory;
Now, with sighs and tears, those trembling hands have laid her
In earth’s dormitory.
Plant the cypress there, the yew’s dark umbrage borrow,
For such shade is meetest;
Scatter wreaths, which youth shall dew with tears of sorrow,
For youth’s tears are sweetest.
All is gloomy round--the gale, while it reposes,
Drops its tone of gladness:
And some shadowy ghost strips all the budding roses--
’Tis the shrine of sadness.
Hymen lingers here--pale, fetter’d, chill’d, despairing,
Bent by grief undying:
See his folded arms, bent eyes--his torch, yet flaring,
On the grave is lying.
THE FAREWELL.
Bent o’er his sabre, torrents starting
From his dim eyes, the bold hussar
Thus greets his cherish’d maid, while parting
For distant fields of war:
‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee!
No anguish can those tears remove;
For, by my troth and beard, I swear thee,
Time shall not change my love.
‘That love shall bloom--a deathless blossom,
My shield in fight--with sword in hand,
And thou, my Lila, in my bosom,
What shall that sword withstand?
‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee!
Those tears can bid no grief depart;
And were I faithless, Maid! I swear thee,
Anguish would tear my heart!
‘Then my good steed would sure betray me,
And falter in the battle-fray,
In peril’s hours refuse t’ obey me--
My stirrup would give way.
‘The sword, my valour’s proudest token,
When grasp’d, like rotten wood would break;
And I should seek thee, spirit-broken,
Death’s paleness on my cheek.’
But the false horseman’s steed obey’d him,
Gentle and eager still;--his sword,
Bright and unbroken, ne’er betray’d him,
Though he broke oath and word.
The tale of love--the tears which shower’d
From Lila’s eye--were all forgot;
The rose-wreath faded--pale--deflower’d:--
Such buds re-blossom not!
That maiden’s breast of peace he rifles;
Then hies him to another’s breast;
Man’s oaths to woman are but--trifles;
And love itself--a jest.
He serves--secures--and then he slights them;
His vows are change--and treachery;
For laughing Cupid’s arrow writes them
Upon the shifting sea.
THE FRIEND’S SHADOW.
_Sunt aliquid manes; letum non omnia finit;
Luridaque evictos effugit umbra rogos._
PROPERTIUS.