Kind protectors of my home!
Not in gold or jewels rich--
Can ye love your simple shrine?
Smile, then, sweetly from your niche
On this lowly hut of mine.
Thus removed from worldly care,
I, a wearied wanderer,
In this silent corner here,
Offer no ambitious prayer.
Here if ye consent to dwell,
Happiness shall court my cell.
Kind and courteous ever prove,
Beaming on me light and love!
Not with streams of fragrant wine,
Not with incense smoking high,
Does the poet seek your shrine--
His is mild devotion’s sigh,
Grateful tears, the still soft fire
Of feeling heart: and sweetest strains,
Inspired by the Aonian quire.
O Lares! in my dwelling rest,
Smile on the poet where he reigns,
And sure the poet shall be blest.
Come, survey my dwelling over;
I’ll describe it if I’m able:
In the window stands a table,
Three-legged, tott’ring, with a cover,
Gay some centuries ago,
Ragged, bare and faded now.
In a corner, lost to fame,
To honour lost, the blunted sword
(That relic of my fathers’ name)
Harmless hangs, by rust devoured.
Here are pillaged authors laid--
There, a hard and creaking bed:
Broken, crumbling, argile-ware;
Furniture strewed here and there.
And these in higher love I hold,
Than sofas rich with silk and gold,
Or china vases gay and fair.
Kind Penates! thus I pray--
O may wealth and vanity
Never hither find their way,
Never here admitted be!
Let the vile, the slavish soul,
Let the sons of pomp and pride,
Fortune’s spoilt ones, turn aside;
Not on them nor theirs I call!
Tottering beggar! hither come,
_Thou_ art bidden to my home;
Throw thy useless crutch away;
Come--be welcome and be gay!
Warmth and rest thy limbs require,
Stretch thee by my cheerful fire:
Reverend teacher! old and hoary,
Thou whom years and toils have taught,
Who with many a storm hast fought,
Storms of time and storms of glory!
Take thy merry balalaika[1],
Sing thy struggles o’er again;
In the battle’s bloody plain,
Where thou swungst the rude nagaika[2];
Midst the cannon’s thunder-roar,
Midst the sabres clashing o’er;
Trumpets sounding, banners flying
O’er the dead and o’er the dying;
While thy never-wearied blade
Foes on foes in darkness laid.
And thou, Lisette! at evening steal,
Through the shadow-cover’d vale,
To this soft and sweet retreat;
Steal, my nymph, on silent feet.
Let a brother’s hat disguise
Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes;
O’er thee be my mantle thrown,
Bind my warlike sabre on:
When the treacherous day is o’er,
Knock, fair maiden, at my door;
Enter then, thou soldier sweet!
Throw thy mantle at my feet;
Let thy curls, so brightly glowing,
On thy ivory shoulders flowing,
Be unbound: thy lily breast
Heave, no more with robes opprest!
“Thou enchantress! is it so?
Sweetest, softest shepherdess!
Art thou come indeed to bless
With thy smiles my cottage now?”
O her snowy hands are pressing
Warmly, wildly pressing mine!
Mine her rosy lips are blessing,
Sweet as incense from the shrine,
Sweet as zephyr’s breath divine
Gently murmuring through the bough;
Even so she whispers now:
“O my heart’s friend, I am thine;
Mine, beloved one! art thou.”
What a privileged being he,
Who in life’s obscurity,
Underneath a roof of thatch,
Till the morning dawns above,
Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch,
In the arms of holy love!
But the stars are now retreating
From the brightening eye of day,
And the little birds are greeting,
Round their nests, the dewy ray.
Hark! the very heaven is ringing
With the matin song of peace:
Hark! a thousand warblers singing
Waft their music on the breeze:
All to life, to love are waking,
From their wings their slumbers shaking;
But my Lila still is sleeping
In her fair and flowery nest;
And the zephyr, round her creeping,
Fondly fans her breathing breast;
O’er her cheeks of roses straying,
With her golden ringlets playing:
From her lips I steal a kiss;
Drink her breath: but roses fairest,
Richest nectar, rapture dearest,
Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss,
Never were as sweet as this.
Sleep, thou loved one! sweetly sleep;
Angels here their vigils keep!
Blest, in innocence arrayed,
I from fortune’s favours flee;
Shrouded in the forest-shade,
More than blest by love and thee.
Time on dove-like wing glides by:
O! has gold a ray so bright
As thy seraph-smile of light
Throws o’er happy poverty?
Thou good genius! in thy view
Wealth is vile and worthless too:
Riches never brought thee down
From thy splendour-girded throne;
But beneath the shadowy tree
Thou hast deigned to smile on _me_.
Fancy, daughter of the skies,
Thoughts, on wings of light that rise,
Waft my spirit gay and free,
When the storm of passion slumbers,
Far above humanity,
To the Aonian land of numbers,
Where the choirs of music stray;
Rapture, like a feather’d arrow,
Bursting life’s dark prison narrow,
Bears me to the heavens away.
Sovereigns of Parnassus! stay
Till the morning’s rosy ray
Throws its brightness o’er your hill,
Stay with nature’s poet still.
O reveal the shadowy band,
Minstrels of my fatherland!
Let them pass the Stygian shore,
From the ethereal courts descending:
Yonder airy spirits o’er,
O! I hear their voices blending:
List! the heavenly echoes come
Wafted to my privileged home;
Music hovers round my head,
From the living and the dead.
Our Parnassian giant[3], proud,
Tow’ring o’er the rest I see;
And, like storm or thunder loud,
Hear his voice of majesty.
Sons and deeds of glory singing
A majestic swan of light;
Now the harp of angels stringing,
Now he sounds the trump of fight;
Midst the muses’, graces’ throng,
Sailing through the heaven along;
Horace’ strength, and Pindar’s fire,
Blended in his mighty lyre.
Now he thunders, swift and strong,
Even like Suna o’er the waste[4];
Now, like Philomela’s song,
Soft and spring-like, sweet and chaste,
Gently breathing through the wild,
Heavenly fancy’s best loved child!
Gladdening and enchanting one[5]!
History’s gayest, fairest son!
He who oft with Agathon
Visits evening’s fane of bliss:
Or in Plato’s master tone,
Near the illustrious Parthenon,
Calls the rays of wisdom down
With a voice sublime as his.
Now amidst the darkness walking,
Where old Russia had her birth:
With the Vladimirij talking,
As they ruled o’er half the earth:
Or Sclavonian heroes hoary,
Cradled in a night of glory!
Sweetest of the sylphs above[6],
And the graces’ darling, see!
O how musically he
Tunes his Citra’s melody,
To Dushenka[7] and to love.
Near, Meletzy smiling stands,
Mutual thoughts their souls employ;
Heart in heart, and hands in hands,
Lo! they sing a song of joy;
Next engaged with love in play,
Poets and philosophers,
Close to Phædrus and Pilpay[8],
Lo! Dmitriev appears
Sporting like a happy child,
Midst the forest’s tenants wild,
Garlanded with smiling wreaths;
Truth unveiled beside him breathes.
See two brothers toying there,
Nature’s children--Phœbus’ priests:
Krĭloff leading Khemnitzer!
Teaching poets! ye whose song
Charms the idle moments long,
When the wearied spirit rests.
Heavenly choir! the graces twine
O’er you garlands all divine;
And with you the joys I drink,
Sparkling round Pierian brink,
While I sing in raptured glory,
“_Ed io anche son pittore_.”
Friendly Lares! O conceal
From man’s envious, jealous eye,
Those sweet transports which I feel,
Those blest rays of heart-born joy!
Fortune! hence thy treasures bear,
And thy sparkling vanities:
I can look with careless eyes
On thy flight--my little bark,
Safely led through tempests dark,
Finds a peaceful haven here--
Those who sported in thy ray
From my thoughts have passed away.
But ye gayer, wiser ones,
Glory’s, pleasure’s cheerful sons!
Ye who with the graces walk,
Ye who with the muses talk;
Hurrying o’er life’s visions gay
In intellectual children’s play;
Careless, joyous sages!--you,
Philosophers and idlers too!
Ye who hate the chains of slavery!
Ye who love the songs of bravery!
In your happiest moments come,
Come, and crowd the muses’ home.
Let the laugh and let the bowl
Banish sorrow from the soul:
Come, Zh******, hither hieing,
Time is like an arrow flying--
Pleasure like an arrow fleet:
Here let friendship’s smile of gladness
Brighten every cloud of sadness--
Wreathe with cypress, roses sweet.
Love is life;--thy garlands bring,
V****, while they’re blossoming:
Bind them blooming round our brow--
Bacchus, friends! is with us now.
Favourite of the muses, fill:
Pledge and drink, and pledge us still!
Aristippus’ grandson--thou!
O thou lov’st the Aonian lasses,
And the harmonious clang of glasses;
But when evening’s silence fills
All the vales and all the hills,
Thou, remote from worldly folly,
Tak’st thy walk with melancholy;
And with that unearthly dame
(Contemplation is her name)
Who conveys the illumined sense
In sublime abstraction hence--
Up to those high and bright abodes
Where men are angels--angels, gods.
Give me now thy friendly hand;
Leave for me thy spirit-land!
Come, companion of my joy,
We will all time’s power destroy
On our _chazha solotoi_[9].
See behind, with locks so gray,
How he sweeps life’s gems away;
His remorseless scythe is mowing
All the flowers around us blowing.
Be it ours to drive before us
Bliss--though fate is frowning o’er us!
Time may hurry, if he will;
We will hurry swifter still;
Drink the cup of ecstasy,
Pluck the flow’rets as we fly,
Spite of time and destiny:
Many a star and many a flower
Shine and bloom in life’s short hour,
And their rays and their perfume
For _us_ shall shine--for _us_ shall bloom.
Soon shall we end our pilgrimage;
And at the close of life’s short stage
Sink smiling on our dusty bed:
The careless wind shall o’er us sweep;
Where sleep our sires, their sons shall sleep
With evening’s darkness round our head.
There let no hired mourners weep[10];
No costly incense fan the sod;
No bell pretend to mourn; no hymn
Be heard midst midnight’s shadows dim--
Can they delight a clay-cold clod?
No! if love’s tribute ye will pay,
Assemble in the moonlight ray,
And throw fresh flow’rets o’er my clay:
Let my Penates sleep with me--
Here bring the cup I loved--the flute
I played--and twine its form, though mute,
With branches from the ivy-tree!
No grave-stone need the wanderer tell,
That he who lived, and loved so well,
Is sleeping in serenity.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The balalaika is a two-sided musical instrument, of which the
Russian peasants are extremely fond.
[2] The nagaika is a hard thong used by the Cossacks to flog their
horses; but sometimes employed as a weapon of warlike attack.
[3] Derzhavin.
[4] In the original _steppe_; a long, mighty, barren, desert; such as
the Siberian river (Suna) flows over.
[5] Karamsin.
[6] Bogdanovich.
[7] Dushenka (the diminutive of Dusha--the Soul), or The Little Psyche,
is the title of the most celebrated poem of Bogdanovich.
[8] The wise man, who according to the oriental story (current also in
Russia) received _Truth_ when she had been inhospitably driven from
place to place. In Russia I have heard the fable thus:--A Vakir in
his ramble trod where the ground re-echoed his footsteps--“It must be
hollow here,” thought he; “I will dig, and I shall find a treasure.”
He dug, and discovered a spring, from whence a beautiful and naked
female sprung forth--“Who art thou, loveliest daughter of heaven?”
said he. “My name,” she replied, “is Truth; lend me thy mantle.” This
he refused to do; and she hastened to the city, where the poets found
fault with her figure, the courtiers with her manners, the merchants
with her simplicity. She wandered about, and none would give her an
asylum, till she fell in with a poor man, the court news-writer, who
thought she might be a very useful auxiliary: but she blotted out
whatever he composed, so that no news was published for many days; and
the sultan sending for his newsman to inquire the cause of his silence,
was told the history of the intrusive guest, who was in consequence
summoned to court. Here, however, she was so troublesome, turning every
thing upside down, that it was determined to convey her away; and the
sultan ordered her to be buried alive in his garden. His commands were
obeyed by his courtiers; but Truth, who always springs up with renewed
vigour in the open air, rose from her grave; and, after wandering
about for some time, found the door of the public library open, went
in, and amused herself by burning all the books that were there, with
the exception of two or three. Again straying forth in search of an
abode, she met a venerable man, to whom she told her story--and this
was Pilpay. He received her to his house with a cordial welcome, and
requested her company to his museum of stuffed beasts, birds, and
insects. “Thou hast no discreetness,” said he; “in the world thou art
constantly getting into scrapes: now take the counsel of an old man,
make this cabinet thy abode; here thou hast a large choice of society,
and here dwell.” She found the advice so reasonable that she adopted
it; since when her voice is only heard in the language of fable, and
her chosen interpreters are the animal creation.
Pilpay’s Fables were translated into French by Galland, 2 vols. 8vo.
1714. There are also several English translations.
[9] The golden cup.
[10] Plakalschitzii--women hired to mourn round a corpse.
LOMONOSOV.
EVENING REFLECTIONS, ON THE MAJESTY OF GOD, ON SEEING THE GREAT
NORTHERN LIGHTS.
Now day conceals her face, and darkness fills
The field, the forest, with the shades of night;
The gloomy clouds are gathering round the hills,
Veiling the last ray of the lingering light.
The abyss of heaven appears--the stars are kindling round;
Who, who can count those stars, who that abyss can sound?
Just as a sand ’whelm’d in the infinite sea;
A ray the frozen iceberg sends to heaven;
A feather in the fierce flame’s majesty;
A mote, by midnight’s maddened whirlwind driven,
Am I, midst this parade: an atom, less than nought,
Lost and o’erpower’d by the gigantic thought.
And we are told by wisdom’s knowing ones,
That these are multitudes of worlds like _this_;
That yon unnumber’d lamps are glowing suns,
And each a link amidst creation is;--
There dwells the Godhead too--there shines his wisdom’s essence--
His everlasting strength--his all-supporting presence.
Where are thy secret laws, O nature, where?
Thy north-lights dazzle in the wintry zone:
How dost thou light from ice thy torches there?
There has thy sun some sacred, secret throne?
See in yon frozen seas what glories have their birth;
Thence night leads forth the day to illuminate the earth.
Come then, philosopher! whose privileged eye
Reads nature’s hidden pages and decrees:--
Come now, and tell us whence, and where, and why,
Earth’s icy regions glow with lights like these,
That fill our souls with awe:--profound inquirer, say,
For thou dost count the stars and trace the planets’ way!
What fills with dazzling beams the illumined air?
What wakes the flames that light the firmament?
The lightnings flash:--there is no thunder there--
And earth and heaven with fiery sheets are blent:
The winter night now gleams with brighter, lovelier ray
Than ever yet adorn’d the golden summer’s day.
Is there some vast, some hidden magazine,
Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies?
Some phosphorus fabric, which the mountains screen?
Whose clouds of light above those mountains rise?
Where the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea,
And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry?
Thou knowest not! ’tis doubt, ’tis darkness all!
Even here on earth our thoughts benighted stray,
And all is mystery through this worldly ball--
Who then can reach or read yon milky way?
Creation’s heights and depths are all unknown--untrod--
Who then shall say how vast, how great creation’s God?
ZHUKOVSKY.
THE MARINER.
Rudderless my shattered bark,
Driven by wild fatality,
Hurries through the tempest dark,
O’er the immeasurable sea.
Yet one star the clouds shines through;
Little star! shine on, I pray!
O that star is vanished too--
My last anchor breaks away.
Gloomy mists the horizon bound,
Furiously the waters roar;
Frightful gulfs are yawning round,
Fearful crags along the shore.
Then I cried in wild despair,
“Earth and heaven abandon me.”
Fool! the heavenly pilot there
May thy silent helmsman be.
Through the dark, the madden’d waves,
O’er the dangerous craggy bed;
Midst the night-envelop’d graves,
Lo! I was in safety led
By the unseen guardian hand;--
Darkness gone, and calm the air,
And I stood on Eden’s land;
Three sweet angels hailed me there!
Everlasting fount of love!
_Now_ will I confide in Thee:
Kneeling midst the joys above,
Thy resplendent face I see:
Who can paint Thee, fair and bright,
Thy soul-gladdening beauty tell?
Midst heaven’s music and heaven’s light,
Purity ineffable!
O unutterable joy!
In Thy light to breathe, to be;
Strength and heart and soul employ,
O my God, in loving Thee.
Though my path were dark and drear,
Holiest visions round me rise;
Stars of hope are smiling there,
Smiling down from Paradise.
ÆOLUS’S HARP[1].
In yon mansion of ages
Lives Morven’s famed chieftain, the valiant Ordāl;
Where the wild billow rages,
And scatters its foam on the time-hallowed wall;
Like a mountain in glory,
It towers o’er the wave,
And its oaks, old and hoary,
Come down to the shores which the white waters lave[2].
The stag-hound, the beagle,
With voices re-echoed, the wide forest fill;
To the throne of the eagle
They chase the wild boar and the goat up the hill;
And the stag from the heather:--
The valleys resound;
Horns, shoutings together,
Are mingled in rapid vibrations around.
All, all are invited--
And joy is let loose at the board of Ordāl;
The guests are united
Where wide-spreading antlers adorn the rude hall[3]:
Of ages departed
The glories are told;
And memory, full-hearted,
Sends back all its thoughts to the great ones of old[4].
Their helmets in order,
Their bucklers, and harness, and hauberks are hung
On the roof’s antique border[5]:
And there, while the deeds and the victories are sung
Of the heroes of story,
Ordāl proudly stands;
And a flash of their glory
Shines out from the cup which he waves in his hands[6].
He looks to the armour;
’Tis all that destruction hath left of their name;--
His bosom beats warmer,
His spirit is roused with the touch of their fame:
Though the helmets before them
Are broken and dim,
He remembers who wore them--
And, O, they are splendid and sacred to him[7].
Milvana the bright one[8]
The hall of her father resplendently fills;
As, with garments of light on[9],
A morning of summer walks up the fresh hills;
As from nature’s recesses
A free golden stream,
So her fine flowing tresses
O’er her soft-heaving bosom in luxury gleam[10].
Far fairer than morning[11].
She scatters around the soft lustre of soul;
Dark glances adorning
The flashes of fire from her eye-balls that roll;
Like the song of the fountain
Her mild accents fall;
Like the rose of the mountain
Her breath;--but her spirit is sweeter than all[12].
Her beauty’s gay splendour
has beamed in its brightness through far-distant lands:
What heroes attend her--
The castle of Morven is filled with their bands.
Its chieftain delighted
Weaves visions of pride;
But his daughter has plighted
Her hand to a bard with no glory allied.
Young, lovely, and lonely
As the rose in its freshness, he tuned his soft lays
In the deep valley only:
To him all unheard was the music of praise.
Milvana descended
From luxury’s throne:
Affection had blended
Her heart with a heart as unstained as her own.
In the black arch of heaven,
Like the shield of a warrior, the pale moon is hung[13];
Through the gloomy clouds driven,
Its light-streams o’er ocean’s wide surface are flung;
The dark shadows spreading,
From castle and grove,
Their giant forms shedding
Sublimely the waves and the waters above.
Where the mountain-cocks rally,
Where the waterfall bursts from the storm-cover’d rock
Ere it rush to the valley[14];
The oak was her witness, her shelter the oak:
Milvana retreating
To solitude there,
Her minstrel awaiting:--
She breathed not--her breath was suspended by fear.
His harp sounded lightly--
He came to the oak-tree--blest moments of love!
The moon glimmered brightly:
All stillness beneath and all beauty above.
What a temple for loving
For bosoms so bland!
And the waves, softly moving,
Convey their low music along the smooth strand.
They looked on the ocean;
With their soft pensive sadness it seemed to attune;
The waves’ gentle motion
Was silvered and marked by the rays of the moon.
“How brightly, how fleetly
The waters roll on!
So swiftly, so sweetly
Come pleasures and love--they smile and are gone.”
“Why sigh then, my fair one!
Though the waters may ebb and the years may decay?
My beloved! my dear one!
Can time on its wings bear affection away?
To a bard unbefriended
O say canst thou bow;
Thou, from monarchs descended,
And heroes, whom Morven is honouring now?”
“What is honour or glory?
What garlands so sacred as love’s holy wreath?
What hero-bright story
Has an utterance so sweet as affection’s young breath?
No fears shall confound us,
No sorrow, no gloom;
Joy is sparkling around us,
And let years follow years till life sinks in the tomb.”
“Come, joys that smile o’er us,
Ye sweets of a moment, come hither and stay!
For who can assure us
They will not be scattered by morning’s bright ray?
For morn will not linger,
Nor rapture remain;
I, again a poor singer,
And thou, a bright queen in thy splendour again[15].”
“Let the glance of day brighten,
Let its radiance be shed o’er the mountain and sea[16];
Thy smiles shall enlighten
All nature, while living, to love and to me;
With hope and with heaven,
With love and with thee,
What joys are not given?
For life has no transports that beam not on me.”
“The sun is returning;
The orient is pale with the promise of day;
The zephyrs of morning
Awakened, like waves on the mountain-tops play;”
“’Tis the northern light glancing
Across the dark sky,
Not the morning advancing;
Sweet winds! bring no morn from the mountains on high.”
“But list! to the bustling
Of voices; they wake in the castle ere now.”
“O no! ’tis the rustling
Of half-slumbering birds as they dream on the bough.”
“The orient is lighted,
Milvana! O why
Do my spirits, benighted
In doubt and foreboding, desert me and die?”
The youth has suspended,
In silence, his harp on the time-hallowed oak:--
“Unseen, unattended,
Let thy soft music speak, my sweet harp! as it spoke
In the luxury of sadness[17],
The fervour of truth,
The bright tones of gladness,
The songs and the smiles and the sunshine of youth.
“The bloom of the singer
Shall fade with the grief-blast, like flowers of the grove[18];
But here there shall linger,
The spirit, the youth and the fervour of love.
An angel here speaking,
Shall often be seen,
All those raptures awaking,
Which in days of our early devotion have been.
“My spirit shall hover
Like a light airy shade o’er the track of thy way;
Milvana! thy lover
Shall speak through his harp at the close of the day.
The grief that alarmed us,
Uncertainty’s fear,
The tears that disarmed us,
All, all of life’s sorrows shall fly from us here.
“When his life-term is ended,
Affection immortal shall live in his soul;
Our spirits there blended,
Shall love and be blest while eternities roll.
Thou oak-tree! wide-spreading,
O’ershadow the fair;--
Ye zephyrs! here shedding
Your fragrance, the freshness of sympathy bear.”
The big tears were falling:--
He ceased:--his eye fixed, but within, like a knell,
A low voice was calling[19]--
“Farewell! my Milvana! for ever farewell.”
His hand, damp and burning,
Had wildly seized hers:
Then hurriedly turning,
Like a phantom of fancy, the youth disappears.
The moon shone unclouded--
The maiden was there, but the minstrel was fled:
Like a silent tree shrouded
In darkness, she stood in the wilderness dread[20].
The chieftain his daughter
Had traced to the grove:
And now o’er the water
To exile, a bark is conveying her love.
At morn and at even
Milvana retires to the oak-tree to mourn;
And the stream that is driven
Adown the steep hill, seems her sighs to return.
“’Tis all dark and dreary,
Milvana! to thee,
Thy spirit is weary--
And thy minstrel shall never return to the tree.”
The evening wind waking,
Called up their soft sounds from the leaves as it roved:
The green branches shaking,
It kisses the harp--but the harp is unmoved.
Spring came, sweetly bringing
Her eloquent train[21],
And nature was ringing
With rapture, enkindling gay smiles through her reign.
On the emerald meadows,
And hills in the distance, are gold streams of light;
And soft silent shadows
Seem to spread over eve the calm stillness of night.
The stars are in motion
Across the blue deep:
Like a mirror, the ocean:
And the winds, hushed to silence, among the leaves sleep[22].
Milvana sat weeping
Beneath the old tree, but her thoughts were not there.
All nature lay sleeping,
When accents unearthly were heard in the air:
The green leaves are shaken--
It was not the wind[23]--
The silent strings waken:
Some ghost hurries by and leaves music behind[24].
The harp’s secret spirit
Breathed forth a long, sorrowful, heart-rending sound[25]:
She trembled to hear it,
’Twas softer than zephyrs when whispering around;
’Twas the voice of her lover;--
Her soul sunk in night[26]:
“’Tis over--’tis over--
The earth is a waste--he has taken his flight.”
In desolate madness
Milvana had fall’n in the dust[27]: but the tone
Still breathed its sweet sadness!
More sad as the soul that inspired it was gone.
Its music she heard not;
She woke faint and chill;
The star-lights appeared not--
’Twas morning--’twas morning, damp, dewy, and still.
From morrow to morrow,
She visited still the old oak of the wood;
There that music of sorrow
Still broke on her ear from the realms of the good.
While thus disunited,
On earth could she stay,
By her minstrel invited
To the heaven where her thoughts and her hopes led the way?
Thou harp of my bosom,
Be still--let thy voice drown the summons of death;
The delicate blossom,
Unopened, shall fade in the valley beneath:
The wanderer roaming
To-morrow will come--
“My floweret, where blooming[28]?”
“Thy floweret!--’tis withered--it sleeps in the tomb.”
She is dead--but whenever
A black, starless mantle is hung o’er the skies;
When from fountain, and river,
And hill, the cold mists like the dark billows rise,
Two shades are seen blending,
United as when
In their youth-tide attending[29];--
And the oak waves its boughs, and the chords speak again.
SONG.
Say, ye gentle breezes, say,
Round me why so gently breathing?
What impels thee, streamlet! wreathing
Through the rocks thy silver way?
What awakens new-born joy,
Joy and hope thus sweetly mingled;
Say, has pilgrim-spring enkindled
Rapture with her laughing eye?
Lo! heaven’s temple, bright, serene,
Where the busy clouds are blending,
Sinking now, and now ascending,
Far behind the forest green!
Will the High, the Holy One
Veil youth’s soul-enrapturing vision?
Shall I hear in dreams elysian
Childhood’s early, lovely tone?
See the restless swallow flies
Through the clouds--his own dominion;
Could I reach on hope’s strong pinion,
Where that land of beauty lies!
O how sweet--how blest to be
Where heaven’s shelter might protect me!
Who can lead me--who direct me
To that bright futurity?
ROMANCE.
Gather’d yon dark forest o’er
Lo! the gloomy clouds are spread:
Bending toward the desert shore,
See the melancholy maid;
Her eyes and her bosom are wet with tears;
All heaven is black, and the storm appears;
And the wild winds lift the billows high,
And her breast is heaving with many a sigh.
“O my very soul is faded,
Joy and sympathy are fled;
Nature is in darkness shaded,
Love and friendship both are dead.
The hope that brightened my days is gone!
O whither, my angel! art thou flown?
Too blest was I, too wild with bliss,
For I lived and loved, and loved for this!
“Swell then, burning tears! the deep,
Flow, with yonder billows flow:
And ye lonely forests! weep,
Meet companions of my woe.
My days of pleasure, though short and few,
Are fled for ever--O earth! adieu!
He sleeps--will death restore him? Never!
For the joy that’s lost is lost for ever.
“Nature’s sad and wintery day
Is of momentary gloom:
Soon in Spring’s reviving ray
All her loveliness shall bloom.
But joy has never a second spring:
And time no ray of light can bring
But from tearful eyes:--there’s no relief
From dark despair’s corroding grief!”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] It will immediately occur to the readers of Ossian, that the
personages, sentiments, and scenery of this poem are derived from him.
The conviction of their high antiquity (notwithstanding what Adelung
has written) is very general in the north of Europe, and I have often
heard that conviction expressed by those who have gone very profoundly
into the history of Runic and Gothic poetry. Whatever be their date,
the inquiry as to their literary merit is very distinct from it. With
the exception of Gray’s Elegy, (of which I have seen a collection
of more than one hundred and fifty versions,) there is nothing,
probably, in our language, which has been more frequently translated.
There are many translations and imitations in Russian besides this of
Zhukovsky,--by Kostrov, Grædich, Visheslavtzev, Oserov, Kapnist, &c.
To the first edition I added a specimen of Dutch poetry, of which
Ossian was the subject, and ventured to speak of the great excellence
of Vondel, Hooft, Helmers, Tollens, and other poets of Holland. I have
now decided on publishing a little volume of _specimens_, in which I
have made considerable progress.
[2] High walls rise on the banks of the Duvranna, and see their mossy
towers in the stream; a rock ascends behind them with its bending
pines. Thou may’st behold it far distant.--_Oithona._
[3] Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields, and youth of
heavy looks came to Rurmar’s echoing hall--they came to woo the
maid.--_Cath-Loda._
[4] Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds! their
souls are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times;
their eyes are flames of fire.--_Fingal._
[5] When a warrior was so far advanced in years as to be unfit for the
field, it was the custom to hang up his arms in the great hall, where
the tribe feasted on joyful or remarkable occasions.
[6] Is the remembrance of battles pleasant to the soul? Do we not
remember with joy the place where our fathers feasted?--_Temora._
[7] Not unmarked by Sul-Malla is the shield of Morven’s king. It hangs
high in my father’s hall in memory of the past.--_Sul-Malla._
[8] Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven’s bow
in showers. Her dark hair flowed around it like the streaming
clouds.--_Cath-Loda._
Her soul was like a stream of light.--_Colna-Dona._
[9] She was a light on the mountain.--_Temora._
[10] Her breast rose slowly to sight, like the ocean’s heaving
wave.--_Colna-Dona._
[11] Her face was like the light of the morning.--_Dar-Thula._
[12] She appeared lovely as the mountain flower, when the ruddy beams
of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered sides.--_Prel. Discourse to
Ossian._
[13] O thou that travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield
of the mighty.--_Prel. Discourse to Ossian._
His shield is terrible, like the bloody moon ascending through a
storm.--_Temora._
[14] Lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods--to the roar of my
mountain-streams.--_War of Caros._
As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter descending from his
storm-covered hill; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream.--_Cathlin
of Clutha._
It is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes
between its echoing rocks to the blasted field of the sun.--_Temora._
Gray streams leap down from the rocks.--_Ibid._
[15] The melancholy character of the whole of this passage, may serve
to recall Ossian’s sublimely beautiful and tender song of sorrow.
I shall be excused for introducing it.--“Desolate is the dwelling
of Moina: silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of
mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen
before us; for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son
of the winged days? thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few
years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court,
and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the
desert come! we shall be renowned in our day. The mark of my arm shall
be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round
the shell; let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven! shalt
fail--if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is for a
season, like Fingal,--our fame shall survive thy beams.”--_Carthon._