O could my grateful lyre a song of glory sing,
O could I steal from thee the high and towering thought,
With thy proud name the world, the listening world I’d fill;
And Camoens’ harp be still,
And Gama be forgot!
Thine was a nobler far than Jason’s enterprise,
Whose name shines like a star in history’s glorious skies:
He bore in triumph home the rich, the golden fleece;
But with thy valour thou, and with thy conquering band,
Hast saved thy father land,
And given to Hellas peace.
But O! my tongue is weak to celebrate thy glory,
Thy valiant deeds shall live in everlasting story,
For public gratitude thy name will e’er enshrine--
Who loves his country, who his empress loves, will throw
His garland on thy brow,
And watch that fame of thine.
But when thou humbledst low the Moslem’s pride and scorn,
And badest her crescent sink, her vain and feeble horn,
And pass’dst the Belt again, with songs and hymns of joy,
Who that perceived thy flag, in all its mightiness,
What Russian could repress
The tears that dimm’d his eye?
I see the people rush to welcome thee again,
Thy ships, with trophies deep, upon the swelling main;
I see the maidens haste, the aged, and the young,
The children wave their hands, and to their fathers turn,
And thousand questions burn
On their inquiring tongue.
“Is this the eagle proud of whom we have been told,
Who led against the Turks the Russian heroes bold,
And with their warriors” blood the azure ocean dyed?
Is this our Orlov--this, with eagle’s heart and name[2],
His foe’s reproach and shame,
And Russia’s strength and pride?’
O yes! O yes! ’tis he--The eagle there appears,
And ocean bears him on, as proud of him she bears:
And see his brother too, who led to victory, there--
And Spirodov, whose praise all ages shall renew,
And Greig and Ilijn too--
The heroes--without fear.
But--wherefore do I rest--what fancies lead me on?
The glorious eagle now to Asia’s coasts is flown,
O’er streams, and hills, and vales, he takes his course sublime,
My eye in vain pursues his all-subduing flight.
O vision of delight!
O victory-girded time!
And heaven, and earth, and sea have seen our victories won,
And echo with the deeds that Catherine has done;
The Baltic coasts in vain oppose the march of Paul,
Not the vast north alone, but all th’ Ægean sea
Shall own his sovereignty,
And the whole earthly ball!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Trinity.
[2] _Orel_ is the Russian for eagle. _Orlov_, inflection of the noun.
SHATROV.
TO THE ARMY OF THE DON.
Moskva is stunn’d with the thunder-storm’s rattle:
See! for the Don has sprung over its banks,
Arm’d ’gainst the foe in fury and battle,
Crowd to the ranks!
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Trump of the Tzar! which to triumph calls loudly--
Spirits of Moskva!--ye warriors away!
Thousand times thousand arrange themselves proudly,
Ripe for the fray.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
‘Strive against God and our Russia shall no men,’
Ataman cried, while he brandish’d his spear,
‘Scatter’d like ashes, they perish--our foemen,
Where are they--where?’
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Fame-circled monarch! like waterfalls gushing
Down from the rocks, see thy children advance
On the false foe, in their energy rushing,
Sabre and lance!
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Russians shall make them a pathway victorious;
Russians shall conquer from Neva to Rhine;
Armies shall fly at their enterprise glorious;
Triumph is thine.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Russia! O fear not! no foe shall assemble
Near thee--they shrink from the cross-flag ador’d.
Lo! at thy slings and thy sabres they tremble--
Ready thy sword!
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Yes! let thy enemy rage--let him hector--
Strong though he be, he shall fly from the field.
Is not the mother of God our protector--
Michael our shield?
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Ready!--to horse!--for the cannon shouts call our
Heroes to struggle for hopes so sublime!
God himself smiles on the high deeds of valour!--
Children, ’tis time!
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Rush on the Franks--as pyramids steady--
Say, shall they enter the heart of our land?
No! for our heroes are gathering all ready;
Firmly they stand,
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
See! for our legions are wildly advancing,
Bonaparte flies from the Sons of the Don;
Dull is the fame that so brightly was glancing--
France is o’erthrown.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Arrows like hailstones are clattering around us,
Sabres and spear-heads shine bright in the breeze,
And the swift bullets seem whispering--they sound as
Swarming of bees.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Three hundred thousand twice reckon’d oppose them
Vainly to Russia--’tis glory to see
How a small band of Cossāks overthrows them--
Look how they flee.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Cannons and muskets abandon’d--and duty
Forgotten--for death and for terror are nigh--
Willingly yield they their knapsacks and booty,
Only to fly.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
See how the raven is crouching, affrighted,
Where the proud eagle has built its own home;
Russia hath left them alarm’d and benighted--
Russia their tomb.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
So is the generous struggle rewarded;
So do the insolent enemy bleed;
So is the palace-crown’d, liberty-guarded
Capital freed.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!
Thanks to the Highest One! honour and glory--
He has conducted us--saved is the throne!
Praise to the Tzar--and may garlands grow o’er ye,
Sons of the Don!
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!
VÆSEMSKY.
TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS, ZH. B. AND S.
My brothers! whither scatter’d now?
What fate--what cruel fate could sever
Hands--souls--fast-bound--divided never?
But ye are fled--and fled for ever,
And I am left alone with woe!
The sigh I heave in silence here,
The careless zephyr bears away;
’Tis lost in twilight’s darkening ray--
’Tis veil’d in night--it fades in day--
It ne’er will reach your listening ear.
Perchance even now, while round me roll
Dark storms and misty clouds--even now,
Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow,
One calls upon his friend--and oh!
Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul.
Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest!
My spirit seems to cling to thee;
From sorrow--to felicity
Wafted--thy bark has pass’d the sea
Of storms--in joy’s calm port to rest.
How long shall absence’ misery last?
When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting?
Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting
Of social bliss return?--How fleeting
Its rapture--’Tis for ever past!
Cold--cold--I feel my heart;--delight
Can kindle ne’er its fire again--
My tears flow forth--they flow in vain;
My smiles--no light those smiles retain;
For what awaked it sinks in night.
Time was--how blessed to recall
That time--when our hands garlanded
The fairest wreaths of roses red,
And in youth’s spring the chorus led
To heaven--the source, the end of all.
Time was--but like a dream it fled!
The hymn--’tis now a funeral dirge;
The garland--’tis affliction’s scourge;
The dance--its memories now emerge
Like ghosts, that wander midst the dead.
And now the plaint ascends!--Appear,
Appear, delightful hours, anew!
Spirit of youth, so fond, so true,
Awake!--Suns, once so bright, so few,
Shine--let illusion’s mockery cheer!
But see! the darkness creeps away--
The clouds disperse--the storm is gone--
Thy smile returns not--blessed one!--
The mountains see the morning dawn--
To me, alas! there dawns no day.
To N. N.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.
As in the mid-day sun the flower
Looks brightest, and then bends its head,
So fell thy son--how short his hour
Of bliss--how rapidly he fled!
Yet o’er his cradle--o’er his tomb,
An everlasting daylight shone;
A promise of bright days to come--
Why came he--only to be gone?
As mounts the incense to the skies,
A towering cloud--with cold, pale cheek
Thou saw’st him to his Maker rise,
And his own blessed country seek.
He gave to thee his last, last sigh,
Ere yet he heaved his latest breath;
He turn’d to thee his dying eye,
Ere it was mantled o’er by death.
Thou hadst indulged the sweetest dream
Which hope e’er built, or time decay’d;
And in the future’s distant beam
Thy son a friend, a brother made.
The hours of youth’s delightful reign,
And rapture’s early, spring-tide joy;
Thou in his smiles hadst shared again,
And in thy boy wert twice a boy.
That vision is departed--Sleep
Soon leaves the weary, mortal eye:
Go--with his funeral cypress--weep;
Thy spirit’s peace is slumbering nigh.
With thine my mingling tears I’ll bring--
Their bitterness he cannot know;--
The morning-rose I’ll o’er him fling--
He was a rose of morning too.
FRAGMENT.
The waves of Seine have seen the banner,
The eagle-banner, floating high;
There do the winds of glory fan her,
While flap her pinions to the sky.
Hers was a night of gloom--but morning
Has dawn’d on her triumphant flight;
And now, all fear and weakness scorning,
She soars to liberty and light.
MILONOV.
THE FALL OF THE LEAF.
Th’ autumnal winds had stripp’d the field
Of all its foliage, all its green;
The winter’s harbinger had still’d
That soul of song which cheer’d the scene:
With visage pale, and tottering gait,
As one who hears his parting knell,
I saw a youth disconsolate;--
He came to breathe his last farewell.
‘Thou grove! how dark thy gloom to me,
Thy glories riven by autumn’s breath;
In every falling leaf I see
A threatening messenger of death.
‘O Æsculapius! in my ear
Thy melancholy warnings chime:
Fond youth! bethink thee, thou art here
A wanderer--for the last--last time.
‘Thy spring will winter’s gloom o’ershade,
Ere yet the fields are white with snow;
Ere yet the latest flow’rets fade,
Thou in thy grave wilt sleep below.
‘I hear a hollow murmuring,
The cold wind rolling o’er the plain--
Alas! the brightest days of spring
How swift, how sorrowful, how vain!
‘O wave, ye dancing boughs, O wave!
Perchance to-morrow’s dawn may see
My mother weeping on my grave--
Then consecrate my memory.
‘I see, with loose, dishevell’d hair,
Covering her snowy bosom, come
The angel of my childhood there,
To dew with tears my early tomb.
‘Then in the autumn’s silent eve,
With fluttering wing, and gentlest tread,
My spirit its calm bed shall leave,
And hover o’er the mourner’s head.’
Then he was silent--faint and slow
His steps retraced;--he came no more:
The last leaf trembled on the bough--
And his last pang of grief was o’er.
Beneath the aged oaks he sleeps;--
The angel of his childhood there
No watch around his tombstone keeps.
But when the evening stars appear,
The woodman, to his cottage bound,
Close to that grave is wont to tread;
But his rude footsteps, echo’d round,
Break not the silence of the dead.
MERSLÆKOV.
DUETT.
FIRST VOICE.
Thus the weeping shepherd spoke,
While his heart with anguish broke,
To the maiden of his bosom:
It can never be!
I shall see thee smile no more;
Thou art rich, and I am poor:
Leave me--be serene and happy--
To my misery!
SECOND VOICE.
Then the youthful shepherdess
Heaved a sigh for his distress,
Gently utter’d, calm and sorrowing,
It can never be?
Thou art mine--for ever mine;
What though poverty be thine?
They who have love’s fount of riches
Know no poverty!
FIRST VOICE.
I am of unhonour’d line,
And the world alone--is mine:
How the proud, and how the noble
Will thy choice reprove!
SECOND VOICE.
Slander is their joy--they know
Nothing of affection’s glow:
Ancestry and pride I seek not--
But I seek thy love!
FIRST VOICE.
Smiles and joy thy steps await:--
Misery is at my gate:
Tears are bitter--but most bitter
Tears of penitence!
SECOND VOICE.
Unpartaken pleasure cloys,
But divided woes are joys;
Where our common tears are mingled
Grief will fly from thence!
FIRST VOICE.
Corn-flowers and forget-me-not,
And narcissus, ne’er I sought;
Now I’ll seek the sweetest flow’rets
For my smiling fair!
SECOND VOICE.
Strange a shepherd’s life to me,
Yet a shepherdess I’ll be;
Though my father’s rich, I’ll braid thee
Garlands for thy hair!
BOTH.
Thou hast made life’s burthen lighter,
Every star and flower is brighter;
Now with thine my heart is blended,
Every thought and breath!
Tears and sorrow, if they come,
Shall not wear the garb of gloom;
Life with thee is crown’d with beauty--
Beautiful is death!
KHOVANSKY.
_Ya vechor v lugakh gulyala._
Through the silent evening hours,
Musing on my cares, I roved;
And amused me gathering flowers,
Forming wreaths for him I loved.
Pensively I wander’d round,
Till the sun had left the plain;
Many and many a flower I found,
But _one_ flower I sought in vain.
Through the solitary even
Every where that flower I sought;
’Tis a flower as blue as heaven--
’Twas in vain--I found it not.
Mournful I was homeward going,
When--a gentle rivulet nigh,
I espied that flow’ret growing--
Which I pluck’d in ecstasy.
Sweet Forget-me-not! elated,
Tears express’d my bursting thought,
And I sigh’d, and I repeated,
O my friend! Forget-me-not!
Gold and glare to me are dim--
He is dearer far than they;
They can add no charm to him--
‘Maid! I love thee!’ charmer, say!
NATIONAL SONGS.
I.
_Ne golubūshka v’chīstom pōlæ vōrkuet._
O’er the meadow not a turtle speeds or flutters,
And the twilight no dew-drops scatters over:
In her chamber a young maiden her griefs utters,
As she thinks, drown’d in tears, of her lover:
Her bright eyes with bursting sorrow are loaded,
Her heart with disappointment has been goaded.
‘My beloved! my beloved! my heart’s master!’
She cried, in her agony overflowing:
Her sighs thicken’d--her tears they hurried faster--
‘O some viper my bosom must be gnawing,
Some poison must my life-blood be congealing!--
No! thy absence creates this bitter feeling.
‘’Tis no traitor, ’tis no false one who has left me,
No vile-minded, no polluted, no cold-hearted--
How sad was the moment which bereft me--
How bitter my sorrow when we parted!
When I lost thee all was darkness about me;
Life and death are indifferent without thee.
‘’Twas not violence fetter’d our affection;
’Twas thy prudence, ’twas thy virtue, that enchain’d me--
In thy bosom love and friendship found protection,
And the heart that was worthy of me gain’d me:
We are pledged not--we are sworn not--for brighter
Is the chain of sweet sympathy--and tighter.
‘Then return thee, my beloved! and forget not
Thou controllest all my joy and all my sorrow;--
Think of me, my heart’s confidence! and let not
My thoughts any gloomier shadows borrow:
’Tis for thee--’tis for thee _alone_--that I grieve me--
Come again, thou sweet spirit! to relieve me.’[1]
II.
_Osen blædnaya v polyakh._
Autumn’s robes are on the mead,
Colder blow the breezes cold;
Sadness fills the shepherd’s fold,
And the cheerful birds are fled.
All are fled--ye swains, draw near,
All your store of gladness bring:
Shepherds--shepherdesses--hear!
Gather round me while I sing.
Come--the shadowy thatch is o’er ye--
Listen to my jealous story.
Daphne, wandering, chanced to look
Towards the wood, and saw, alone,
Sporting, his beloved one,
Leaning on her pastoral crook;
Her light morning garments on--
On her hand a wreath she held,
Playing with the early sun,
In the forest and the field:
O, it was a moment meet
For a lover’s heart to beat!
Forward she--he sought the wood
Swiftly--not less swift she flew--
Harder beat his bosom true--
He was left in solitude.
Like a rein-deer she is gone,
Buried in the thickest shade.
‘Heaven--and faithless, treacherous one!
‘Do I dream?--No!--cruel maid!
‘Some heart’s-robber waits thee there--
‘Wretched man!--deceitful fair!’
But he reach’d the wood at last,
And he hears the rustling boughs,
Hides him midst the leaves, and vows
That his eagle eye shall blast
All her joy--her shame unveil:
Then he put the boughs aside,
But, as tutor’d to conceal,
They rebound, dissatisfied;
And he stands, a senseless thing,
When he heard his maiden sing:--
(Gods of heaven! and fiends of hell!
Ye, who e’er a heart conferr’d--
Ye, who e’er of passion heard--
Thunder were less terrible.)
‘Come,’ she said, ‘O come, my dear!
Come, thou brightest, sweetest, best!
Sport thee with this garland here,
Sleep upon my welcoming breast;
Dwell, my joy, my pride, with me,
And my heart shall dwell with thee.’
‘Vile deceiver!--fallen to this!’
And the forest echo’d round
Laughter, and the gentler sound
Of the love-conferring kiss.
Through the circling boughs he tears,
And, with fury-flashing eyes,
Met his maiden pale with fears,
And--upon her hand espies
A sweet bird that she caress’d,
And was fondling in her breast.
Canst thou, canst thou then forgive
He who dared to doubt thy truth?
‘No! forgiveness, erring youth!
Ne’er with doubting love can live.’
So she spoke--his heart was broken,
Veil’d in grief and sunk in shame;
Tears, repentance’ bitter token,
Fell, but could not quench the flame:
So--for love the victory wins--
She forgave him all his sins.
III.
TO MARY.
Noisy nightingale! be still,
Hear’st thou not the sweeter thrill
Of my Mary,
Of my fairy,
From the cottage? through the trees,
Born on breath of western breeze.
As the skylark from her height,
Midst the dews of opening light,
Sweetly singeth;
Joy upspringeth
From the heart that song to hear--
So I love thy voice, my dear!
Turn I towards the window-seat--
Give me one soft glance, my sweet!
Kind is Mary,
Kind my fairy,
Joyous as a summer’s day
In the mildest smile of May.
Then her heart its folds unveils,
And she sings its secret tales:
Gently flowing,
Mildly glowing,
O how sweetly falls the strain!
O how fascinating then!
When upon her harpsichord
Music leads the mournful word,
And the spirit
Sighs to hear it,
Led by her in willing chain--
Who was ever like her then?
Who?--two Marys cannot be.
Mary! life’s sweet witchery!
Mary! bless me,
And caress me:
Kings might envy, for thou art,
Mary! thou, my heart of heart.
Peace!--she sighs--thou window fly
Open--let me drink her sigh:
Glowing, blushing,
Thither rushing,
Could I steal one rapturous kiss--
Sing, sweet bird! thy song of bliss.
IV.
_Akh! kabĭ na tzvætĭ ne Morosĭ._
If the frost nipp’d the flowrets no more,
If in winter the flowrets would bloom,
If the woes of my spirit were o’er,
My spirit should cast off its gloom:
I would sit with my sorrow no longer,
O’erwatching the dew-covered field.
I said to my father already,
Already I said to my taper[2],
‘Nay! marry me not, O my father!
O marry me not to a proud one!
O seek not for high piles of riches,
O seek not for palaces fair,
’Tis man, not his palace we dwell in,
’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!’
I hurried across the young grass,
I threw off my sable fur cloak,
Lest its rustling perchance might betray me,
Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle--
Afraid my stepfather would hear me,
And say, ‘she is there,’ to his son--
To his son--who is doom’d for my husband.
V.
_Akh! kak toshno mnæ toshnen’ko._
O how gloomy has been to me
The year that speeds away,
But gloomier than all the rest to me
Gloomier than all--to-day!
I must forget my meat and drink,
And of my lover think.
I must no longer idly sleep,
But counsel seek, and keep.
Counsel--counsel must I seek,
And seek it from my lover.
Let us, let us now, my hope,
Let us live in love;
Live in love, while time runs over,
Were it but a year,
And that year will then appear
Like a little day.
Fain, my love, I’d live with thee,
But the wicked ones,
Even our next door neighbours watch
With a never-weary eye;
Every step they watch,
And to father and to mother
Tell most lying tales;
Such as that the youthful maiden
Woke at early hour,
Woke at early hour to watch her,
Watch her youthful friend;
And she stood upon the threshold
And her kerchief waved.
Truly, she did wave her kerchief
To invite her friend.
Turn again, my hopes! come hither,
Hither to my soul!
O thou com’st not!--tell me wherefore,
Wherefore art thou hidden?
Yes! they call thee, thou my treasure!
Thou wilt marry thee.
When thou hastenest to the altar,
Say farewell! to me.
Take away my woe and sorrow
From the luckless maid,
Bind her woe, and bind her sorrow
To thy horse’s mane.
Scatter all the maiden’s sorrow
O’er the flowerless field;
Spring there from the maiden’s sorrow,
Fairest grass and turf!
Grass and turf from maiden’s sorrow,
And the sweetest flowers;
All the flowers are brightly red--
One more bright than all--
One--yes, one is far more bright--
O the bright red flower!
Many and many a friend I love,
One far more than all;
One is dearer than the rest--
Loved one of my soul!
VI.
_Tĭ vosnoi, vosnoi zhavoronochik._
Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!
In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully,
To his father writes--to his mother writes:
Thus he wrote--and these--these were the very words:
‘O good father mine--thou beloved sir!
O good mother mine--thou beloved dame!
Ransom me, I pray--ransom the good lad,
He is your beloved--is your only son!’
Father--mother--both--both refused to hear,
Cursed their hapless race--cursed their hapless seed:
‘Never did a thief our honest name disgrace--
Highwayman or thief never stain’d the name.’
Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone in the green of May!
From the prison-tower thus the prisoner wrote,
Thus the prisoner wrote to his beloved maid:
‘O thou soul of mine! O thou lovely maid!
Truest love of mine--sweetest love of mine!
Save--O save, I pray--save the prison’d lad!’
Swiftly, then, exclaim’d that beloved maid:
‘Come, attendant! come--come my faithful nurse--
Servant faithful--you that long have faithful been,
Bring the golden key--bring the key with speed--
Ope the treasure chests--open them in haste;
Golden treasures bring--bring them straight to me:
Ransom him, I say--ransom the good lad,
He is my beloved--of my heart beloved.’
Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!
VII.
_Na boskhodĭ krasna solnĭshka._
When the lovely sun is mounting high,
And the bright moon leaves the morning sky;
When no falcon floats upon the air,
By the river’s side a youth is seen--
Ah! he totters--slowly moving there,
His faint eye glides o’er the gardens green,
While he holds sad converse with woe and care:
Then the little birds awake and greet
Bridegroom and bride, in raptures sweet
They flap their wings in ecstasy:
My turtle!--all--yes! all but thou,
Who slumberest in thy chamber now,
Nor sighest--nor sendst a thought to me--
No! I am banish’d from her dreams--
My memory now no longer gleams
In her heart--my soul’s bright hours are o’er--
Nadesha will be mine no more!
From her chamber then the maiden sped,
And grief was on her cheeks distrest;
And her eyes with sorrow’s tears were red,
Her arms hung down--she is not dead,
For no arrow has transfix’d her breast,
And no venomous snake has poison’d her:
He would speak--but he was forced to hear:
‘Now fare thee well, thou loving one!
My soul!--my father’s best loved son!
Last eve I was affianced--
Oh! and the guests to-morrow come:
They will lead me to God’s holy shrine,
Call me another’s--wretched doom!
Another’s----but for ever thine.’
VIII.
_Akh! daleche v chistom polæ._
Alas! on that plane, distant meadow towers
A little tree, whose branches raise them high,
And neath those branches grows the emerald grass,
And o’er the grass full many a floweret blooms,
There many a floweret blooms as blue as heav’n.
And on those flowerets was a carpet spread,
And on that carpet sat two brothers lone,
Two lonely brothers, link’d in strongest love:
The elder brother waked the cymbal’s voice,
To which the younger’s sweetest hymns were join’d:
‘Two sons, our mother gave us to the world,
Our father like two falcons rear’d his boys;
He rear’d and fed us--yet he taught us nought--
But rear’d us on this wide and foreign land:
A wide and foreign land--the town unknown;
Wide foreign land--dry even without the wind--
Dry without wind, and chilly without frost.
Our mother deem’d we never should get free,
But we have freed us in this happy hour,
And now, O mother! thou wilt find us not.’
IX.
_Tĭ dusha moya._