The winds are swift, but cannot follow him:
Nation on nation struck with terror bends;
His voice is thunder; starry glories gleam
Around him, and his glancing footsteps bright
Scatter a thousand thousand rays of light.
His body, like a dark and gloomy shade,
On midnight’s melancholy bosom lies:
A coarse and heavy garment round him laid,
And thickening films are gathering round his eyes:
His icy fingers press his bosom chill,
His lips are opened wide, but all is still.
His bed, the earth: his roof, the azure sky:
His palace, yonder desert stretching wide.
Art _thou_ the son of fame and luxury?
The prince of Tavrid? from thy height of pride
Fallen so low and lonely? and is this
But one dark step from glory and from bliss?
Wert thou the favourite of the northern throne,
Minerva’s[11] favourite? Wert thou he that trod
The Muse’s temple--thou, Apollo’s son,
The pride of Mars--thou, on whose mighty nod
Both peace and war stood waiting; nobly great,
Not clad in purple, but a potentate?
What! art thou he that cradled and uprear’d
The Russian’s prowess--Catherine’s energy?
Sustain’d by her, thy thunderbolt was heard
Rolling through distant lands its majesty;
And to the everlasting heights was hurl’d,
Whence Rome sent forth her mandates to the world.
Art thou not he who bade the robber yield;
Scatter’d the pirate herds the desert o’er,
And bade the city flourish and the field,
Where all was waste and barrenness before;
Sprinkled with ships the Euxine--while the shore
Even of the tropics heard thy cannons’ roar?
Wert thou the great, the glorious one, who knew
With martial fire the hero Russ to fill;
Taught him the very elements to subdue,
In burning Ochakov and Ismahil:
With eagle-daring, eagle-strength inspired;
While valour looked and wondered and admired?
’Tis he, the hardiest of mortals; he,
Sublimely soaring, takes his flight alone,
Creator of his own proud destiny:
No footstep near him--that bright path his own.
Thy fame, Potemkin, shall in glory glow,
While everlasting ages lingering flow.
Beauty and art and knowledge raised to him
Triumphal arches: smiling fortune wove
Myrtle and laurel-wreaths, and victory’s beam
Lighted them up with brightness: joy and love
Play’d round thy flow’ry footsteps: pleasure, pride
Walk’d in majestic glory at thy side.
’Tis he, ’tis he to whom the poet brought
His offerings lighted with the Muse’s fire:
Thundering with Pindar’s majesty of thought,
And breathing all the sweetness of the lyre,
I sang the victories of Ismahil;
But thou wert gone--the poet’s lyre was still.
Alas! ’twas then a vain and voiceless shell:
Or, if it spoke, its tone was but despair;
From my weak hands it fell, in dust it fell,
My eye was dimmed by the fast-falling tear:
I stood the stars of paradise beneath[12],
But all was darkness, desolation, death!
’Tis still, where all was eloquent with thee:
The thunders of thy fame have rolled away;
Thy orphan’d armies wail their misery;
The ear is wearied with their plaintive lay.
’Twas brightness all, with joy and beauty bright,
But now ’tis night, ’tis desolation’s night.
Thy laurel crown is faded in its pride:
Thy sparkling _Bulava_[13] is broken now;
Thy half-sheathed sword hangs useless at thy side;
And Catherine mourns her woe, her more than woe:
He fell; his mighty, unexpected fall
Shook, like an earthquake, the terrestrial ball.
Peace brought her fresh green laurel branches; saw
His fall, and from her hands the garland fell.
She heard the voice of wretchedness and woe;
The Muses joined to sing a funeral knell
Around the tomb of Pericles:--the strain
Of Maro wept Macænas’ fate again[14].
His was a kingdom full of light: a throne
Of more than regal glory was his seat:
A rosy-silver steed convey’d him on--
A splendour-glancing phaeton at his feet:
Proudest of all the proud equestrians he--
He fell:--in death’s dull, dark obscurity.
O! what is human glory, human pride?
What are man’s triumphs when they brightest seem?
What art thou, mighty one! though deified?
Methusalem’s long pilgrimage, a dream;
Our age is but a shade, our life a tale,
A vacant fancy, or a passing gale,
Or nothing! ’Tis a heavy hollow ball,
Suspended on a slender, subtle hair,
And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions, all
Struggling within in furious tumult there.
Strange mystery! man’s gentlest breath can shake it,
And the light zephyrs are enough to break it.
But a few hours, or moments, and beneath
Empires are buried in a night of gloom:
The very elements are leagued with death,
A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb.
Where is the mighty one? He is not found,
His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground!
The dust of heroes? No! their glories rise
Triumphant upwards, spreading living light
And pure imperishable memories
Through ages of forgetfulness and night:
Flowers shining on time’s wintry mountain side;
Potemkin could not die--he has not died!
His theatre was th’ Euxine’s distant shore,
His temple, thankful hearts: the glorious hand
That crowns him, Catherine’s: glancing, dazzling o’er
Was fame’s all-eloquent, triumphant band.
Life was a list of triumphs, and his head
Beneath a tomb-stone, reared by love, was laid.
When the red morn breaks trembling o’er the dew,
And through the woods the wild winds whistle shrill;
When the dark Danube wears a bloody hue--
Then is the name oft heard of Ismahil,
And oft a gloomy voice is echoed then,
Through twilight, “Say what means the Saracen?”
He trembles, and his eye is dimmed with fear,
The arms he dreads are sparkling in the sun;
And forty thousand Moslems dying there,
Are the proud trophies of the northern one.
Their shades, like frighted spectres, glide before,
And the Russ stands in streams of human gore.
He trembles, and looks upwards, but the skies
Are covered with portentous omens dire;
Dark visions from the sea of Tavrid rise,
And the land shakes with heaven’s excited ire:
Ochakov pours anew her sanguine flood,
And terror seems to freeze that tide of blood.
As through the fluid brightness of the sea,
Beneath the welkin’s sunny canopy,
The tenants of the waves glide joyfully;
So o’er the Leman’s face our squadrons fly,
Their swell’d sails bursting with the winds, they tell
How proud the ambition of the Russ can swell.
Ours is unutterable triumph now,
Theirs fears and apprehensions: on the tomb
That shields _their_ heroes, thorns and mosses grow;
Laurels and roses o’er _our_ heroes bloom.
_Our_ glory-girded mausoleums stand
O’er conquerors of the ocean and the land.
When the sun sinks at evening’s calmest close,
Love sorrowfully sits: the breeze of spring
Across the melancholy harp-strings blows,
And spreads around its deep notes sorrowing:
Sighs from his bosom burst, and tears are shed
Upon the sleeping hero’s sculptured bed.
And ere the morning gilds the distant hill,
And o’er the golden tomb the sunbeams play;
While yet the wild deer sleeps; and night winds shrill
Wind round the mountain’s side; the old man gray
Hangs o’er the monument in secret gloom,
And reads, “Potemkin’s consecrated tomb!”
Manes of Alcibiades! so low,
That even the earth-worm joys in their decay:
There lies the casque that bound Achilles’ brow;
The shepherd finds it--bears that casque away
On his base forehead! Does it matter? Nay!
The victor sleeps--his glory? wrapt in clay!
But gratitude still lives and loves to cherish
The patriot’s virtues, while the soul of song
In sacred tones, that never never perish,
Fame’s everlasting thunder bears along;
The lyre has an eternal voice--of all
That’s holy, holiest is the good man’s pall.
List then, ye worldly waterfalls! Vain men,
Whose brains are dizzy with ambition; bright
Your swords--your garments flow’ry like a plain
In the spring time--if truth be your delight
And virtue your devotion, let your sword
Be bared alone at wisdom’s sacred word.
Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice,
Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes;
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory
Receives a freshness and a strength from thee.
Roll on! no clouds shall on thy waters lie
Darkling: no gloomy thunder-tempest break
Over thy face: let the black night-dews fly
Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak
In distance and in nearness: be it thine
To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine.
Thou parent of the waterfall! proud river!
Thou northern thunderer, Suna! hurrying on
In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever
Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun,
Now dashing from the mountain to the plain,
And scattering purple fire and sapphire rain.
’Tis momentary vehemence: thy course
Is calm and soft and silent; clear and deep
Thy stately waters roll: in the proud force
Of unpretending majesty, they sweep
The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly,
Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea.
Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed,
Washes the golden banks that o’er thee smile;
Until the clear Onega drinks its tide,
And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil:
O what a sweet and soul-composing scene,
Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene!
THE LORD AND THE JUDGE[15].
The God of heaven stood up, and loudly
Thus to the gods of earth he spoke:
“How long shall folly triumph proudly,
And virtue wear its heavy yoke?
’Tis yours, however high the wronger,
The wrongs of misery to redress;
Defend the weaker from the stronger,
Widow and orphan shield and bless.
To guard the naked head of sorrow,
To make the path of wisdom light;
To free the prisoner; and to borrow
My attributes for _truth_ and _right_.”
They _will_ not hear, see, know--O never;
Dark mists are on their vision thrown.
And shall the sick earth groan for ever?
Wilt Thou not tire, long-suffering one?
Kings! gods of earth! no earthly being
May bid you at his bar appear;
Yet there is _One_ all-knowing--seeing--
Who sits in sternest judgement there.
Proud as ye are, your gems imperial
Shall fall like leaves:--your kingdoms--graves;
Your martial pomp--a pall funereal;
Your throne--looked down on by your slaves.
God of the righteous! God, arise Thee!
Hear the faint prayers Thy children bring!
Judge, scatter all who dare despise Thee,
And be the earth’s unrivalled King!
ON THE DEATH OF COUNT ORLOV.
What do I hear? An eagle from heaven’s cloudy sea,
Midst the high-towering hosts that swam
Before Minerva’s steps, when she
To earth from proud Olympus came:
That eagle, sailing in its state,
Heralding Russia’s naval might,
Pierced by the fatal spear of fate,
Falls rustling from the glorious height!
Alas! alas! whither his flight through heaven’s blue vault?
Where is his path on ocean’s deep?
Where is his fearful thunderbolt?
Where do his forked lightnings sleep?
Where is the bosom nought could fright,
The piercing, penetrating mind;
’Tis all, ’tis all enshrined in night;
He left us but his fame behind!
SONG.
Golden bee! for ever sighing,
Round and round my Delia flying;
Ever in attendance near her:
Dost thou really love her, fear her,
Dost thou love her,
Golden bee?
Erring insect! he supposes,
That her lips are morning roses:
Breathing sweets from Delia’s tresses,
He would probe their fair recesses.
Purest sugar
Is her breast!
Golden bee! for ever sighing,
Ever round my Delia flying;
Is it thou so softly speaking?
Thine the gentle accents breaking,
“Drink I dare not,
Lest I die!”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This is the poem of which Golovnin says in his narrative, that it
has been rendered into Japanese, by order of the emperor, and is hung
up, embroidered with gold, in the Temple of Jeddo. I learn from the
periodicals, that an honour something similar has been done in China
to the same poem. It has been translated into the Chinese and Tartar
languages, written on a piece of rich silk, and suspended in the
imperial palace at Pekin.
[2] In the first edition there was a deviation from the original in
this verse. A translator is bound not to alter the sense of his author,
and I had certainly exceeded the limits which are in any case allowed.
I have been reproved for the variation I had introduced. The reproof
was just, and might have been more severe.
[3] The force of this simile can hardly be imagined by those who have
never witnessed the sun shining, with unclouded splendor, in a cold
of twenty or thirty degrees of Reaumur. A thousand and ten thousand
sparkling stars of ice, brighter than the brightest diamond, play on
the surface of the frozen snow; while the slightest breeze sets myriads
of icy atoms in motion, whose glancing light and beautiful rainbow-hues
dazzle and weary the eye.
[4] Julius Cæsar.
[5] Belisarius, who, by the way, is the subject of many Russian Poems.
[6] It is scarcely necessary to explain, that Romanzov is the old hero
whom the poet means to depicture, and that these stanzas refer to his
victories over the Turks. To Romanzov a long and laudatory poem was
addressed from London by Petrov in celebration of these successes.
I must here disclaim all sympathies with the poet in the admiration he
expresses of the warlike character. The victims of the executioner are
at all events doomed to death by the forms and with the solemnities
of justice. Those of the conqueror hurry into another world under the
influence of crimes and passions which, while indeed they unfit them
for this, will serve but as a fearful passport for eternity. I should
as soon think of celebrating the carousals of a horde of cannibals, as
of giving the attractions and decorations of song to those dreadful
scenes of sin and misery which men call victories: and I blush for my
country and for my race when I reflect, that in the very proportion
of the wickedness implied, and the wretchedness produced, are they
made the subjects of pride and congratulation, and honoured with the
designations “great” and “glorious!” Man was surely born to nobler and
better things than these.
[7] “The ebony and amber sea”--the Euxine and the Caspian.
[8] “Evening’s side”--the west.
[9] The white czar (bæloi tzar), a common appellation of the Russian
emperor.
[10] Original:
Grokhochet ekho po goram
Kak grom gremjeshchij po gromam.
[11] Catherine.--This was one of her favourite titles; and in the
character and dress of Minerva she is often represented on her medals.
[12] The roofs of many of the apartments of the Tavrid palace were
decorated with golden stars.
[13] _Bulava_--the Hetman’s staff.
[14] This is somewhat of an anachronism, as the Poet died before his
patron.
[15] In the former edition this poem was printed in another shape, and
was then attributed to Lomonosov. It belongs, however, to Derzhavin,
and is here restored to its proper author and to its original measure.
BATIUSHKOV.
TO MY PENATES.