It look’d as if interr’d beneath a leaden sea,
And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me,
While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody.
The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling,
And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill,
And to the watch the active helmsman calling,
The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still.
All seem’d to rock itself to gentle thought;
Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, look’d forth,
And through the night and through the mist I sought,
I sought the star beloved of my domestic north.
Then into memory melted every feeling--
My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace,
And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing,
Cover’d my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness.
Then dreams with other dreams were blended,
And lo! there stood--was it a dream?--the form
Of that dear friend who his career had ended
Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm.
He stood upon the mist, and smiled--his face,
Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining
Like the young spring in gaiety and grace,
Even as an angel from high heaven declining:--
‘Comrade of better time! and is it thou?
And is it thou?’ I cried, ‘thou hero bright!
Did I not in the fury of the fight
Attend thee--and when thou hadst fallen below
Make thy new grave--and on a neighbouring tree
Write with my sword thy feats of bravery,
And follow’d thy cold ashes to their bed,
And hallow’d it with prayers, and with tears watered?
Speak, unforgotten one! speak! was it a deceit?
Is all that’s past a dream--a cheating dream?
A dream that corpse--a dream that grave--that sheet
Wrapt round thee--were they not--did they but _seem_?
O but one word! let that tongue’s melody
Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear:
O unforgotten one! stretch out to me
Thy old right hand of friendship--stretch it here.’
I sprung towards him--Oh! the mists had dimm’d my eye--
He vanish’d like a shade--a lock of airy smoke--
Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky,
And I, arousing from my dream, awoke.
Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping;
The very winds--the very waves, at rest;
And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping;
The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast.
But I was troubled--peace had left my soul--
I stretch’d my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see--
I called on him--whom I could not control--
On thee--belov’d one! best of friends! on thee!
LOVE IN A BOAT.
’Tis a calm and silent even,
Luna rests upon the sea;
See! the impelling breeze has driven,
Driven a little bark to me.
What a lovely child is seated
At the helm--a trembling child!
‘Thou wilt perish, boy ill-fated!
Whelm’d among the surges wild.’
‘Help me! help me! gentle stranger!
All my strength, alas! is gone:
Take the helm--conduct the ranger
To some harbour of thy own.’
Pity’s warmth, that never freezes,
Bid me seize the helm:--we sped,
Wafted by awakening breezes,
As by feather’d arrows led.
Swiftly, swiftly then we glided
By the flowery shores along;
Reach’d a spot where joy presided,
Smiling nymphs, and dance and song.
Music welcomed us and laughter,
Garlands at our feet were thrown;
Then I look’d my wanderer after--
I was left--the bark was gone.
On the stormy shore I laid me,
Careless of the surge’s spray;
Sought the child who had betray’d me,
Saw him laugh--and row away.
Lo! he beckons--lo! he urges--
Through the noisy waves I fly:
Off he speeds across the surges,
Laughing out with louder joy.
Wet and weary, I retreated
To the scene of revelry:--
’Twas a fairy dream that cheated--
All was blank obscurity.
Wanderer! if that boat should ever
Meet thy vision, O be coy!
’Tis delusive--trust him never--
Cupid is a wicked boy.
THE PRISONER.
There, where the swift Rhone’s waters flow
Its verdant banks between;
Where fragrant myrtles bending grow,
And Rhone reflects their green;
There, where the vineyards deck the hills,
And o’er the valleys spread,
Which golden citrons’ fragrance fills,
And plantains rear their head--
There stood, as sunk the lord of day,
Upon the smiling shore,
One who long watch’d the waters play,
And thought his sorrows o’er;
A Russian hero--stolen by war,
The honour of the Don;
Divided from his friends afar,
He wander’d there alone.
‘O roll!’ he sang, ‘ye waters roll--
Flow in your glory on;
Your waves shall waken on my soul
The memory of the Don.
My days pass by without an aim,
Amidst life’s busy roar;
For what is life without its fame,
Or the bright world?--’tis poor.
‘Now nature wears its spring-tide dress,
The sun shines splendidly;
All liberty and loveliness--
O! why am I not free?
O roll, ye waters! rage, thou Rhone!
And waken, as ye roll,
The thoughts of my domestic zone
Within my troubled soul.
‘The maidens here are fair and bright,
Their glance is full of fire;
And their all-graceful smiles of light
Might satisfy desire.
But what is love in foreign lands,
Or joy?--I only know
The joy and love that bless our sands,
Midst forests and midst snow.
‘Give me my freedom--let me tread
Once more my country’s strand;
With frost and storm all overspread--
My home--my father-land!
Deep is the snow around my door;
But give me my own steed,
And day and night, the mountains o’er,
Me to my home he’ll lead.
‘At home, there’s one who sits and keeps
The memory of her love;
And often to the window creeps,
And pours her prayers above.
She guards the thoughts of him whose mind
Guards every thought of her;
She pats the horse I left behind--
How privileged to be there!
‘O roll, thou Rhone! ye waters roll--
Rush in your glory on;
Your waves still waken in my soul
The memory of the Don.
Come, winds! come hither from the north,
Come, in your freshness, come:
And thou bright pole-star blazen forth,
Memento of my home!’
So spake the prisoner, as he turn’d
To Lyons his tired eye,
When long in exile’s chains he mourn’d
His hapless destiny.
He sang--the Rhone roll’d proudly on,
The moon oft kiss’d its tide;
And oft on Lyons’ turrets shone
The sun in all his pride.
TO THE RHINE.
FRAGMENT.
Here, in the misty days of time departed,
The ranks of bards oft tuned their solemn hymn;
Teutonic minstrels sang--gay--eager-hearted--
Still’d is their music now--their light is dim.
Thy waves roll on--they roll as then--
Their proud, untired, untroubled way--
Eternal is thy course--while men,
Unlike thy waves--decline--decay.
MERSLAKOV.
ON THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON.
ISAIAH XIV. 5-28.
’Tis over--she exists no more--
The terror of the bad and good
Is fallen--an awful solitude
Spreads all her insolent trophies o’er.
Her crumbling ruins are in dust:
The Almighty, in his anger just,
Has scatter’d all her glories: He--
The Lord--hath riven the heavy yoke--
He hath th’ accursed sceptre broke,
And given his people liberty.
Thus did the Lord--the Lord of might!
His day of wrath for us is past;
The smiter he hath smitten at last,
And beam’d on us his smile of light.
Joy round his Israel’s tents has sped,
And grateful Lebanon bows his head,
And joins with ours his song of praise:
The heavenly cedars from on high
Bending--‘And thou art razed,’ they cry,
‘And we have seen thy dying blaze.’
Destruction now, in robes of night,
Hath veil’d thy fading rays in gloom;
Strange shadows round thee take their flight,
As on the storm the surges’ foam.
The empress of a hundred states--
The city of the thousand gates--
Her glory in the dust is laid.
‘What! thou who wert a god in pride,
‘Is this thy fate--so magnified,
‘And so defenceless--so decay’d?’
Where is thy pride, thy pageantry?
Where is thy glory, humbled thing?
O bid thy choral voices sing
The triumphs of thy vanity!
No! all is still--for, like a shade,
The idle tones of flattery fade;
And music’s charms--a shifting play.
Murd’ress! how baseless was thy trust!
Thy house is night, thy bed the dust,
Thy covering--crawling worms of clay.
There was a light from heaven that shone,
Dazzling all visions with its ray:
It shone in glory yesterday--
This morn it glanced--but now ’tis gone.
Then, thine was an imperial will--
Now, as the grave, thy voice is still.
Thou saidst, in insolent pride, ‘My throne
‘I’ll build upon the highest star--
‘Ride on the rolling clouds afar,
‘And this proud Zion trample down.
‘My car the glorious sky shall sweep,
‘My towers the very heavens shall reach,
‘Obedience to the gods to teach:’
And now--thou art a ruin’d heap.
The pilgrim who shall seek thee there,
Will only find a wild-beast’s lair
In a vast desert: he shall stand
Trembling before the God of heaven,
And pray his sins may be forgiven,
And hide his pale cheek in his hand.
Was this the city that we fear’d,
This she whose fetter-bearing hands
Enslaved, insulted countless lands,
While misery in her train appear’d?
Who shall resist death’s mighty claim?
Who shall oppose the good man’s fame?
His sons shall watch his gen’rous fires,
And he shall live in memory’s store,
In the wet eyelids of the poor,
Until he sleeps where sleep his sires.
Thou’rt stretch’d upon the battle-plain,
And shame and misery hem thee round;
Indignant voices curse the ground
Where thou once rear’dst thy trophies vain.
Thou, the destroyer of thy sons!
Thou, thy own people’s murderer once!
Now liest beneath th’ unwholesome dew--
A peaceful grave is now denied thee.
The God of vengeance stands beside thee,
Thy children’s children to pursue.
Now rise, in all thy fury rise,
Sprout of the fallen accursed race;
New threats of slavery I trace--
Another plague towards us flies.
No! God hath said: ‘My strength shall wake,
And in the storm and thunder speak,
And sweep the daring hordes away;
Their towns the tygers’ haunts shall be,
Their lands--the cradle of the sea,
And all their memory shall decay.’
He spake--and as He spoke ’twas done:
The mandate of Thy heavenly will
To utter, Lord! is to fulfil;
For art Thou not th’ Almighty One?
Thou hast subdued their tyranny,
Broken our bonds of slavery;
Hast waved Thy fearful, fiery rod:
And who shall check Thy awful hand?
Who shall Thy thunderbolt withstand?
Who battle with a battling God?
VOEIKOV.
TO MY FUTURE BRIDE.
O unknown being! thou whom long my soul has sought,
Vision of fancy bright, thou mild and lovely queen!
Thou, vainly, long, pursued by my impatient thought,
Thou pure divinity unseen!
O tell me in what mist thou veil’st thy shadowy form!
O tell me where thy steps have left their wonted trace!
For in hope’s sunshine hour, and in grief’s frowning storm,
I feel thou art my resting place.
When I my civic post, or social circle fill,
And with th’ infirm and poor my narrow portion share,
The widows’ sorrows soothe, the orphans’ murmuring still,
I know, sweet spirit! thou art there.
When fancy takes her flight beyond terrestrial things,
And towers above all space, and leaves behind all time;
And up to holiest stars of thought’s creation springs,
Thou art her brightest dream sublime.
Once, in the moonlight’s shade, I saw thee, angel! stand,
(Bent o’er a marble urn, whose waters gently swell’d)
Clad in celestial white, bound with an azure band,
A heavenly lyre thy fingers held.
And once, amidst a crowd, bright tears hung on thine eye,
Thy head sunk on thy breast, devotion seem’d t’ engross
Thy thoughts, and kneeling, thou pray’dst heaven in ecstasy,
Pressing the consecrated cross.
I saw thee, angel-like, through yonder temple glide,
Scattering thy light around like some ray-crested saint,
Whispering sweet notes of peace, in the still eventide,
To many a pilgrim tired and faint.
I love to paint thee when thy bounty’s generous store
Soothes the gray beggar’s wants, and comforts the distrest,
Anoints the sick with oil, provides with bread the poor,
And for the houseless finds a rest.
And O! how blest, to dream that thou may’st yet be mine,
A very dove of peace, around my steps to hie,
Waking from thy sweet lyre a melody divine,
Gay as a summer butterfly.
And when upon the wave, midst twilight’s peaceful gleam,
I launch my little bark, wilt thou sit smiling by,
And with thy lovely hand conduct it o’er the stream,
And rule my blessed destiny;
And listen to my tale of fond and passionate love:
Not, like a ghost, as now, but holding in thy hand
A golden lamp; nor e’er seek thy own shrine above,
But throw aside thy misty band.
My guardian spirit, hail! unveil thee in thy bloom,
For thou art lovelier far than feeble poet’s art;
Come in thy virtues now--in all thy glory come,
And fill the vacuum of my heart.
MURAVIEV.
TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVA.
Glide, majestic Neva! glide thee,
Deck’d with bright and peaceful smiles;
Palaces are raised beside thee,
Midst the shadows of the isles.
Stormy Russian seas thou bindest
With the ocean--by the grave
Of our glorious Tzar thou windest,
Which thy grateful waters lave.
And the middle-ocean’s surges
All thy smiling naiads court;
While thy stream to Paros urges,
And to Lemnos’ classic port.
Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded,
See the brightest memories fade;
Glassy mirrors--how degraded!
Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade.
While thy happier face is bearing
Ever-smiling images,
On thy busy banks appearing
Crowds in gaiety and peace.
Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes,
Spread their riches o’er thy breast,
While thy well-known banner rises,
Rises proudly o’er the rest.
In thy baths what beauties bathe them,
Goddesses of love and light;
There Erota loves to swathe them
In the brightest robes of night.
Cool thy smiling banks at even,
Cool thy grottos and thy cells,
Where, by gentle breezes driven,
Oft the dancing billow swells.
Then thou gatherest vapours round thee,
Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress;
Love and Mirth have now unbound thee--
Yield thee to thy waywardness.
Thou dost bear the dying over,
Weary of his earthly dream[1];
And with awful mists dost cover
All the bosom of the stream.
With thy car thou troublest never
The calm silence of the deep;
Syrens dance around thee ever,
Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep.
Peaceful goddess! oft the singer
Sees thee, in his ecstasy,
On the rock he loves to linger,
Sleepless--then he meets with thee.
BOLESLAV,
KING OF POLAND.
Fame and glory’s feeble embers
Fade o’er many a hero brave;
But the faithful Pole remembers
The good prince--King Boleslav.
True to love, though purple-girded--
True to friendship, though a king;
In his inner soul there herded
Thoughts for ever festering.
He was happy--but two brothers
Saw with dark and secret hate
Their proud father-land another’s--
They aspired to rule the state.
They were loved--the king delighted
All his love to pour on them;
But a maiden’s faith was plighted,
And he saw the promised gem.
As the lily, courted only
By the breezes of the wood;
So Volhynia’s princess lonely,
Shrouded her in solitude.
Sbignei saw--and loved--communion
Of affections swiftly grew:
They were sworn to holy union,
Sworn to Hymen’s pledges true.
List!--the trumpets call the forces;
See the dust clouds on the fields;
Hark!--the impatient neigh of horses--
‘To the fight!’--and Sbignei yields.
To the town the monarch drew him,
Not in pride of victory;--
Saw the princess--and he threw him
Bending at the lady’s knee.
Tears adown her cheeks were flowing,
And in agony she cried:
‘Whither is my Sbignei going?
O desert me not--thy bride!’
Yet two moons had told their story--
Sick with love is Boleslav;
He forgot his martial glory,
And his army true and brave.
Sbignei now all truce hath broken,
His Bohemian troops he calls;
See his rebel standard-token
Marching on Volhynia’s walls.
’Tis in vain--he is forsaken--
The Bohemian bands have fled;
He himself a prisoner taken--
But his vizor veils his head.
See!--the jealous king espies him
Sleeping on Volhynia’s knee--
Draws his dagger and destroys him--
’Twas his brother!--’twas not he!
Who shall tell the murderer’s madness--
Who shall paint his deathlike look?
There he stood, in grief and sadness,
Staggering--starting--thunderstruck.
Fain his steel he would have buried
In his tortur’d throbbing breast;
But th’ attendant courtiers hurried,
From his hand that steel to wrest.
Then he left his kingly palace,
All he left--except his woe;
To the spot that Calvary hallows,
Pilgrim-like he vow’d to go.
Every city where he wander’d
Heard his crime, and heard his prayers:
O’er his wretched fate he ponder’d,
Asking pardon even with tears.
Be he pardon’d!--his repentance--
May it bring his soul relief:
Mournful is man’s earthly sentence,
Glory is no shield from grief.
* * * * *
She bent her head, and the tears that fell
Were veil’d as there were shame in tears:
Her lips were closed, but a low ‘farewell’
Had glided from those lips of hers.
The pale moon shone, and she raised her eye,
It sparkled in the heavenly ray--
A smile awoke, and the tear was dry--
And the maiden sped her on her way.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The burying-place at Petersburg is on the other side of the Neva.
KAPNIST.
ON JULIA’S DEATH.
The evening darkness shrouds
The slumbering world in peace,
And from her throne of clouds
Shines Luna through the trees.
My thoughts in silence blend,
But gather’d all to thee:
Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
O come! and mourn with me.
Upon her grave I bow,
The green grave where she lies:
O hear my sorrows now,
And consecrate my sighs!
This is her ashes’ bed--
Here her cold relics sleep--
Where I my tears shall shed
While this torn heart can weep.
O Julia! never rose
Had half the charms of thee--
My comfort--my repose--
O! thou wert all to me.
But thou art gone--and I
Must bear life’s load of clay--
And pray--and long to die--
Though dying day by day.
But I must cease to sing,
My lyre all mute appears--
Alas! its plaintive string
Is wetted with my tears.
O! misery’s song must end--
My thoughts all fly to thee:--
Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
O come and mourn with me!
PETROV.
ON THE
VICTORY OF THE RUSSIAN OVER THE TURKISH FLEET.
O triumph! O delight! O time so rich in fame
Unclouded, bright and pure as the sun’s mid-day flame!
Ruthenia’s strength goes forth--see from the sea emerge
The Typhons of the north--the lightning, in its might,
Flashes in dazzling light,
And subject is the surge.
They wander o’er the waves--their eye impatiently
Seeks where the Moslem’s flag flaunts proudly o’er the sea--
’Tis there!--’tis there! exclaim the brave impatient crowd--
The sails unfurl’d--each soul with rage and courage burns--
Each to the combat turns--
They meet--it thunders loud!
I see from Ætna’s rocks a floating army throng:
A hero, yet unsung, wafts the proud choir along--
The masts, a fir tree wood--the sails, like outspread wings.
List! to the shoutings--see! the flash--they thunder near.
Earthquakes and night are there--
With storms the welkin rings.
There _January_ speeds--there _Svætoslav_ moves on,
And waves and smoke alike are into tempest thrown;
And there the ship that bears the three-times hallow’d name[1],
And _Rotislav_ and _Europe_, there triumphant ride;
While the agitated tide
Is startled with the flame.
Eustav, in fire conceal’d, scatters the death-like brand,
And earth and heaven are moved, and tremble sea and land;
And there, a mountain pile, sends round the deeds of death,
As if Vesuvius’ self in combat were engaged--
While other mountains raged,
And pour’d their flaming breath.
The roar, the whiz, the hum, in one commingling sound,
The clouds of smoke that rise, and spread and roll around;
The waves attack the sky in wild and phrenzied dance;
The sails are white as snow; and now the sun looks on,
Now shrouds him on his throne--
And the swift lightnings glance.
Hard proof of valour this--the spirit’s fiery test:
Fierce combat--grown more fierce--bear high the burning breast!
See, on the waves there ride two mountains, fiery-bound,
Ætna and Hecla, loose on ocean’s heaving bed--
The burning torches spread,
And ruin stalks around.
Ocean, and shore, and air, rush backward at the sight,
The Greek and Turk stand still, and groan in wild affright;
Calm as a rock the Russ is welcoming death with death;
But ah! destruction now blazes its fiery links,
And even victory sinks
Its heavy weight beneath.
O frightful tragedy!--a furnace is the sea--
The triumph ours--the flames have reach’d the enemy:
He burns--he dies in smoke--beneath the struggle rude
The northern heroes sink, with weariness opprest,
And ask a moment’s rest,
As if they were subdued.
And whence that threatening cloud that hangs upon their head?
That threatens now to burst--What! is their leader dead?
And is he borne away, who all our bosoms warm’d?
He fell--there lies his sword--there lie his shield and helm--
What sorrows o’erwhelm
The conqueror disarm’d!
O no! he wakes again from night--he waves his hand,
Beckoning to the brave ranks that, mourning, round him stand:
‘My brother!’ cried he--‘Heaven! and is my brother gone?--
Their sails unfurl--My friends! O see! O see! they fly--
On--“Death or vengeance!” cry,
On, on to Stambul’s throne!’
He fled--O hero! peace! there is no cause for grief,
He lives--thy brother lives, and Spiridov, his chief:
No dolphin saved them there--it was the Almighty God,
The God who sees thy deeds, thy valour who approves,
And tries the men he loves
With his afflictive rod.
The dreadful dream is past--past like a mist away,
And dawns, serene and bright, a cloudless victory day:
The trump of shadeless joy--the trump of triumph speaks;
The hero and his friend are met, and fled their fears;
They kiss each others cheeks,
They water them with tears.
They cried ‘And is our fame, and is our glory stain’d?
God is our shield--revenge and victory shall be gain’d--
We live--and Mahmoud’s might a hundred times shall fall;
We live--the astonish’d world our hero-deeds shall see.
And every victory
A burning fleet recall.
Whence this unusual glare o’er midnight’s ocean spread:
At what unwonted hour has Phœbus left his bed?
No! they are Russian crowds who struggle with the foe,
’Tis their accordant torch that flashes through the night.
Sequana! see the might
Of Stambul sink below.
The harbour teems with life, an amphitheatre
Of sulphurous pitch and smoke, and awful noises there;
The fiends of hell are loose, the sea has oped its caves,
Fate rides upon the deep, and laughs amidst the fray,
Which feeds with human prey
The monsters of the waves.
See, like a furnace boils and steams the burning flood,
’Tis fill’d with mortal flesh, ’tis red with mortal blood,
Devour’d by raging flames, drunk by the thirsty wave,
The clouds seem palpable--a thick and solid mass--
They sink like stone or brass
Into their water-grave.
Thou ruler of the tomb!--Dread hour of suffering,
When all the elements----Drop, Muse! thy feeble wing!
Hell, with its fiends--and all the fiends that man e’er drew
There mingled--Silence veil that awful memory o’er!
I see the hero pour
The tears of pity too!
O Peter! great in song, as great in glory once,
Look from thy throne sublime upon thy Russia’s sons:
See, how thy fleets have won the palm of victory,
And hear the triumph sound, even to the gate of heaven--
The Turkish strength is riven
Even in the Turkish sea.
Thee, Copenhagen saw--the Neptune of the Belt;
Now Cherma’s humbled sons before thy flag have knelt.
The helpless Greeks have fled--thy banner sees their shore,
Trembling they look around, while thy dread thunder swells,
And shakes the Dardanelles,
And Smyrna hears its roar.
Gallicians! fear ye not the now advancing flame,
Recording, as it flies, your own, your country’s shame?
In the dark days of old, your valiant fathers trod
In the brave steps of Rome, towards lands of southern glow;
Ye fight with Russians now,
Beneath the Moslems’ rod.
Where innocence is found--there, there protection wakes;
Where Catherine’s voice is heard--there truth, there justice speaks:
A ruler’s virtues are the strength and pride of states,
And surely ours shall bloom where Catherine’s virtues stand.
O enviable land!
Glory is at our gates.
Soar, eagle! soar again, spring upward to the height,
For yet the Turkish flag is flaunting in the light:
In Cherma’s port it still erects its insolent head,
And thou must pour again thy foes’ blood o’er the sea,
And crush their treachery,
And wide destruction spread!
But fame now summons thee from death to life again,
The people’s comfort now, their glory to maintain;
The hero’s palm is won.--Now turn thee and enhance
The hero’s triumphs with the patriot’s milder fame.
O Romans! without shame
On Duil’s spoils we glance.
We’ll consecrate to thee a towering marble dome!
From yonder southern sea, O bring thy trophies home,
Bring Scio’s trophies home,--those trophies still shall be
Thy glory, Orlov, thine!--the records of thy deeds,
When future valour reads
Astrea’s victory!