that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! whence are thy
beams, O sun!--thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful
beauty, the stars hide themselves in the sky: the moon cold and pale
sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a
companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains
themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the
moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same,
rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with
tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy
beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou
lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow
hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the
west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will
have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of
the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! age is
dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it
shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills: the blast of
the north is on the plain--the traveller shrinks in the midst of his
journey.”--_Ibid._
[16] The mountains are covered with day.--_Temora._
[17] Pleasant is the joy of grief.--_Carrie-thura._
[18] Thy death came like a blast from the desert and laid my green
head low: the spring returned with its showers, no leaf of mine
arose.--_Croma._
[19] Within my bosom is a voice--others hear it not.--_Temora._
[20] Night came: the moon from the east looked on the mournful field:
but they stood still like a silent grove that lifts its head on
Gormal.--_Carthon._
[21] So hears a tree in the vale the voice of spring around, and pours
its green leaves to the sun.--_Temora._
[22] Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the
sky? The west has opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The
waves come to behold thy beauty: they lift their trembling heads; they
see thee lovely in thy sleep; but they shrink away with fear. Rest in
thy shadowy cave, O sun! and let thy return be in joy.--_Carric-thura._
[23] Doth the wind touch thee, O harp! or is it some passing
ghost?--_Berrathon._
[24] The harps of the bards were believed to emit melancholy and
unwonted sounds prophetic or commemorative of the death of any renowned
and worthy person. This was attributed to the _light touch of ghosts_.
The music was called the warning voice of the dead.
The harps of the bards untouched, sound mournful over the
hill.--_Temora._
The lone blast torched their trembling strings: the sound is sad an
low.--_Ibid._
[25] The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain
shrieked. The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently
touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the
tomb.--_Dar-Thula._
[26] Darkness covers my soul.--_Prel. Discourse._
Darkness gathered on Utha’s soul.--_Carric-thura._
[27] Her dark brown hair is spread on earth.--_Ibid._
[28] Why did I not pass away in secret like the flower of the rock,
that lifts its head unseen and shows its withered leaves to the
blast?--_Oithona._
They fall away like the flower on which the sun hath looked in his
strength after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy
with the drops of night.--_Croma._
[29] It was a current opinion, that the spirits of women hovered over
the earth in all their living beauty, and were often seen gliding along
like a sun beam on a hill.
She was like a spirit of heaven half folded in the skirt of a
cloud.--_Temora._
The sky grew dark: the forms of the dead were blended with the
clouds.--_Ibid._
Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark thick mist on Lena, where
it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they
rise without song to the dwelling of winds.--_Ibid._
Two spirits of heaven standing each on his gloomy cloud.--_Ibid._
The flower hangs its heavy head, waving at times to the gale. “Why dost
thou awake me, O gale!” it seems to say, “I am covered with the drops
of heaven: the time of my fading is near--the blast that shall scatter
my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come. He that saw me in beauty
shall come--his eyes will search in the fields, but they will not find
me.”--_Berrathon._
KARAMSIN.
THE SONG OF BORNHOLM.
Curses on the world’s decree!
That decree which bid us part:
Who has e’er resisted thee,
Passion-throbbing, maddened heart?
Is aught holier than the light
Kindled in our souls by heaven?
Is aught stronger than the might
Given to love--to beauty given?
Yes! I love--shall ever love!
Curse the passion if ye will,
Call down vengeance from above,
Still I love--adore her still!
Holy Nature! I, thy child,
To thy sheltering bosom flee:
Thou hast fanned this flame so wild,
I am innocent with thee.
If to yield to passion’s sway,
Be a dark and damning sin;
Why hast thou, O tempter! say,
Lighted passion’s fires within?
No! thy storm-winds as they rolled,
Gently rocked our secret bed;
And thy thunder, though it growled,
Never burst upon our head.
Bornholm! Bornholm! to thy home
Memory--wildered memory flies:
Thither would my spirit roam
From its tears--its agonies!
Vain the wish! an outlaw I,
Followed by a father’s curse;
Doomed in banishment to die,
Or despairing live--as worse!
Lila! has thy spirit shrunk
From thy woes, and found a grave?
Has thy burthened misery sunk
In oblivion’s silent wave?
Let thy shadow then appear,
Smile upon me from the tomb;
Give me, love! a welcome there,
Come, though veil’d in darkness,--come!
THE CHURCH-YARD.
FIRST VOICE.
How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind--the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!
SECOND VOICE.
How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep!
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flow’rets perfume it with ether.
FIRST VOICE.
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.
SECOND VOICE.
How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there:--but the nightingales come
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.
FIRST VOICE.
The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave:--
’Tis the vulture’s abode:--’tis the wolf’s dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs
SECOND VOICE.
There the coney at evening disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod;--while the turtles above,
Repose on the bough that o’erhangs.
FIRST VOICE.
There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath,
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death,
The trees are all barren and bare!
SECOND VOICE.
O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.
FIRST VOICE.
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears
He is launched on the wreck-covered river!
SECOND VOICE.
The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes for ever.
AUTUMN.
The dry leaves are falling;
The cold breeze above
Has stript of its glories
The sorrowing grove.
The hills are all weeping,
The field is a waste,
The songs of the forest
Are silent and past:
And the songsters are vanished;
In armies they fly
To a clime more benignant,
A friendlier sky.
The thick mists are veiling
The valley in white;
With the smoke of the village
They blend in their flight.
And lo! on the mountain
The wanderer stands,
And sees the pale autumn
Pervading the lands.
Thou sorrowful wanderer.
Sigh not--nor weep!
For nature, though shrouded,
Will wake from her sleep.
The spring, proudly smiling,
Shall all things revive;
And gay bridal-garments
Of splendor shall give.
But man’s chilling winter
Is darksome and dim;
For no second spring-tide
E’er dawns upon him.
The gloom of his evening,
Time dissipates never:
His sun when departed
Is vanisht for ever.
LILEA.
What a lovely flower I see
Bloom in snowy beauty there--
O how fragrant and how fair!
Can that lily bloom for me?
Thee to pluck, be mine the bliss,
Place upon my breast and kiss!
Why then is that bliss denied?
Why does heaven our fates divide?
Sorrow now my bosom fills;
Tears run down my cheeks like rills:
Far away that flower must bloom,
And in vain I sigh, “O come!”
Softly zephyr glides between,
Waving boughs of emerald green.
Purest flow’rets bend their head,
Shake their little cups of dew:
Fate unpitying and untrue.
Fate so desolate and dread
Says, “She blossoms not for thee;--
In vain thou shedd’st the bitter tear,
Another hand shall gather her:--
And thou--go mourn thy misery.”
O flower so lovely! Lilea fair!
With thee I fain my fate would share,
But heaven hath said, “It cannot be!”
EPIGRAM.
TO NICANDER.
You talk of your taste and your talents _to_ me,
And ask my opinion--so don’t be offended:
Your taste is as bad as a taste can well be:
And as for your talents--_you_ think them most splendid.
DMITRIEV.
DURING A THUNDER-STORM.
It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above:
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! trembling like a timid child,
I hear Thy awful voice--alarmed--afraid--
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.
Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies--
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
_There_ is he lost midst heaven’s high mysteries,
And _here_ in error and in darkness lost:
Beneath the storm-clouds, on life’s raging sea,
Like a poor sailor--by the tempest tost
In a frail bark--the sport of destiny,
He sleeps--and dashes on the rocky coast.
Thou breathest:--and th’ obedient storm is still:
Thou speakest;--silent the submissive wave:
Man’s shatter’d ship the rushing waters fill,
And the husht billows roll across his _grave_.
Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy momentary dream:
And Time, when view’d through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.
THE TZAR AND THE TWO SHEPHERDS.
The tzar has wandered from the city-gate,
To seek seclusion from the cares of state;
And thus he mused; “What troubles equal mine!
_That_ I accomplish when I purpose _this_:--
In vain I bid the sun of concord shine,
And toil unwearied for my subjects’ bliss;
Its brightness lasts a moment, and the tzar
For the state’s safety is compell’d to war,
God knows I love my subjects--fain would bless them,
But oft mistake--and injure and oppress them.
I seek for truth, but courtiers all deceive me;
They fill their purses and deluded leave me!
My people sigh and groan:--I share their pain,
And struggle to relieve them, but in vain.”
Thus mused the lord of many nations; then
Looked up, and saw wide scatter’d o’er the glen
The poor lean flocks:--the sheep had lost their lambs,
And the stray’d lambkins bleated for their dams:--
They fled from place to place, alarm’d, afraid;
The lazy dogs were sleeping in the shade!
How busy is the shepherd!--now he hies
To the grove’s verge:--now to the valley flies:--
Seeks to assemble here the sheep that stray,
And there a favourite lamb he hurries on:
But lo! the wolf!--he springs upon his prey;
The shepherd hastens, but the thief is gone:
He cries--he beats his breast--he tears his hair,
Invoking death in agonized despair.
“Behold my picture!” said his majesty,
“Here is another sovereign, just like me:--
I’m glad to know vexations travel far,
And plague a shepherd as they plague a tzar.”
And on he moved in more contented mood--
Whither he knew not;--but beyond the wood
He saw the loveliest flock that ever grazed,
And linger’d, mute with wonder, as he gazed:--
How strong, how sleek, how satisfied, how fair!
Wool soft as silk, and piled in luxury there,
Its golden burthen seemed too great to bear.
The lambs, as if they ran for wagers playing,
Or near their dams, or far--securely straying--
The shepherd, ’neath the linden-tree,
Tuned his pipe most joyfully!
“Ah!” said the tzar, “ye little think
How close ye stand on danger’s brink,
The uncharitable wolf is near:--
And he for music has no ear.”
And so it was--as if the wolf had heard,
Advancing in full gallop he appear’d.
But the dogs, the wily traitor knew,
Sprung up, and at the robber flew:--
His blood has for his daring paid;
And the lambkin that through fear had stray’d,
Is gather’d into the fold anew;
And the shepherd’s pipe was echoed still,
Down the vale and up the hill.
The monarch lost all patience now:--
“What! dost thou sit there like a rock,
While wolves are ravaging thy flock?
A very pretty shepherd thou!”
“Tzar! here no evil can betide my sheep,
_My dogs are faithful--and they do not sleep_.”
THE BROKEN FIDDLE.
A wretched[1] fiddle fell, in fragments,--these
Though once discordant, by the hand divine
Of music fashioned, breathed sweet harmonies:
* * * * *
So is man tuned by sufferings’ discipline.
OVER THE GRAVE OF BOGDANOVICH,
AUTHOR OF THE BEAUTIFUL POEM PSYCHE.
Here Love unseen, when sinks the evening sun,
Wets the cold urn with tears, and mournful thinks,
While his sad spirit, sorrow-broken, sinks,--
None now can sing my angel Psyche--none!
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.
Fair sister!
“Infant brother dear!
On the wing, on the wing?”
Wandering the wide world over
In search of a lover--there _is_ no _lover_:
Lost as if the plague had been there!
“I’ve been seeking a _friend_!--there’s none below,
The world must soon to ruin go!
Written in sand are the oaths now spoken,
’Tis all lip-service, and promise broken;
My name is a cloak for _thirst of gain_!”
And mine for _passion_ impure, profane!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Original, _diuzhenna_--one of a dozen--a frequent expression for
what is very common and useless.
Krĭlov.
THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE[1].
An ass a nightingale espied,
And shouted out, “Holla! holla! good friend!
“Thou art a first-rate singer, they pretend:--
Now let me hear thee, that I may decide;
I really wish to know--the world is partial ever--
If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever.”
The nightingale began her heavenly lays;
Through all the regions of sweet music ranging,
Varying her song a thousand different ways;
Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing:
Full of wild rapture now--then sinking oft
To almost silence--melancholy, soft
As distant shepherd’s pipe at evening’s close:--
Strewing the wood with lovelier music;--there
All nature seems to listen and repose:
No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:--
All other voices of the grove are still,
And the charm’d flocks lie down beside the rill.
The shepherd like a statue stands--afraid
His breathing may disturb the melody,
His finger pointing to the harmonious tree,
Seems to say, “Listen!” to his favourite maid.
The singer ended:--and our critic bow’d
His reverend head to earth, and said aloud:--
“Now that’s so so;--thou really hast some merit;
Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it;
Thy voice wants sharpness:--but if Chanticleer
Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he
Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear;
And thou in spite of all thy faults mayst be
A very decent singer.”----
The poor bird
In silent modesty the critic heard,
And winged her peaceful flight into the air,
O’er many and many[2] a field and forest fair.
There are too many such critics now-a-days.
Merciful heaven! protect us from their praise.
THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB.
If harmony be wanting to your plans,
Vain are your efforts, yours, or any man’s;
They end in disappointment all alike.
I once observed a Swan, a Crab, a Pike,
Drawing a treasure; all their power, their will
Exerted, yet it stood unmoved and still.
’Tis not its weight, its weight was very little;
Three powers at work, it budges not a tittle:
The Swan would fain soar upwards in its pride,
The Crab draws back, the Pike to the water side.
Who of the three was wrong? and who was right?
It might be all--it might be none--it might!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Krĭlov gave me this fable in MS. It has been printed in his _Basni_.
[2] Literally--“three times nine.”
Khemnitzer.
THE HOUSE-BUILDER.
Whate’er thou purposest to do,
With an unwearied zeal pursue;
To-day is thine--improve to-day,
Nor trust to-morrow’s distant ray.
A certain man a house would build,
The place is with materials fill’d;
And every thing is ready there--
Is it a difficult affair?
Yes! till you fix the corner stone;
It won’t erect itself alone.
Day rolls on day, and year on year,
And nothing yet is done--
There’s always something to delay
The business to another day.
And thus in silent waiting stood
The piles of stone and piles of wood;
Till Death, who in his vast affairs
Ne’er puts things off--as men in theirs--
And thus, if I the truth must tell,
Does his work _finally_ and _well_--
Winked at our hero as he past,
“Your house is finish’d, Sir, at last;
A narrower house--a house of clay--
Your palace for _another day_!”
THE RICH AND THE POOR MAN.
So goes the world:--if wealthy, you may call
_This_ friend, _that_ brother;--friends and brothers all:
Though you are worthless--witless--never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy--what then?
’Tis wealth, good Sir, makes _honourable men_.
You seek respect, no doubt, and _you_ will find it.
But if you are poor, heaven help you! though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels too,
’Tis all in vain;--the world will ne’er inquire
On such a score:--Why should it take the pains?
’Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.
I once saw a poor devil, keen and clever,
Witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him, and no one ever
Gave him a welcome. “Strange,” cried I, “whence is it?”
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there,--in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some
Said by their silence--“Better stay at home.”
A rich man burst the door,
As Crœsus rich I’m sure,
He could not pride himself upon his wit
Nor wisdom--for he had not got a bit:
He had what’s better;--he had wealth.
What a confusion!--all stand up erect--
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in _honest_ duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.
“Allow me, Sir, the honour;”--then a bow
Down to the earth--Is’t possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?
The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,
“This is indeed beyond my comprehension:”
Then looking round
One friendly face he found,
And said--“Pray tell me why is wealth preferr’d
To wisdom?”--“That’s a silly question, friend!”
Replied the other--“Have you never heard,
A man may lend his store
Of gold or silver ore,
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?”
THE LION’S COUNCIL OF STATE.
A lion held a court for state affairs:
Why? That is not your business, Sir, ’twas theirs!
He called the elephants for counsellors--still
The council-board was incomplete;
And the king deemed it fit
With asses all the vacancies to fill.
Heaven help the state--for lo! the bench of asses
The bench of elephants by far surpasses.
He was a fool--the foresaid king--you’ll say;
Better have kept those places vacant surely,
Than fill them up so poorly.
O no! that’s not the royal way;
Things have been done for ages thus--and we
Have a deep reverence for antiquity:
Nought worse, Sir, than to be, or to appear
Wiser and better than our fathers were.
The list must be complete, even though you make it
Complete with asses; for the lion saw
Such had for ages been the law--
He was no radical to break it!
“Besides,” he said, “my elephants’ good sense
Will soon my asses’ ignorance diminish,
For wisdom has a mighty influence.”
They made a pretty finish!
The asses’ folly soon obtained the sway;
The elephants became as dull as they!
THE WAGGONS.
I saw a long, long train
Of many a loaded, lumbering wain;
And one there was of most gigantic size,
It look’d an elephant midst a swarm of flies;
It roll’d so proudly that a passenger
Curiously asked--“Now what may _that_ contain?”
“Nothing but bladders, Sir!”
Such masses (misnamed _men_!) are little rare,
Inflated, bullying, proud, and full of--_air_.
BOBROV.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
_From the Khersonida, p. 41-3._
O thou unutterable Potentate!
Through nature’s vast extent sublimely great!
Thy lovely form the flower-decked field discloses,
Thy smiles are seen in nature’s sunny face:
Milk-coloured lilies and wild-blushing roses
Are bright with Thee:--Thy voice of gentleness
Speaks in the light-winged whispering zephyrs playing
Midst the young boughs, or o’er the meadows straying:
Thy breath gives life to all; below, above,
And all things revel in Thy light and love.
But here, on these gigantic mountains, here
Thy greatness, glory, wisdom, strength and spirit,
In terrible sublimity appear;
Thy awe-imposing voice is heard,--we hear it!
Th’ Almighty’s fearful voice; attend, it breaks
The silence, and in solemn warnings speaks:
His the light tones that whisper midst the trees;
His, his the whistling of the busy breeze;
His, the storm-thunder roaring, rattling round[1],
When element with element makes war
Amidst the echoing mountains: on whose bound,
Whose highest bound he drives his fiery car
Glowing like molten-iron; or enshrin’d
In robes of darkness, riding on the wind
Across the clouded vault of heaven:--What eye
Has not been dazzled by Thy majesty?
Where is the ear that has not heard Thee speak?
Thou breathest!--forest-oaks of centuries
Turn their uprooted trunks towards the skies.
Thou thunderest!--adamantine mountains break,
Tremble, and totter, and apart are riven;
Thou lightenest! and the rocks inflame; Thy power
Of fire to their metallic bosom driven,
Melts and devours them;--Lo! they are no more:--
They pass away like wax in the fierce flame,
Or the thick mists that frown upon the sun,
Which he but glances at and they are gone;
Or like the sparkling snow upon the hill,
When noon-tide darts its penetrating beam.
What do I say? At GOD’S almighty will,
The affrighted world falls headlong from its sphere,
Planets and suns and systems disappear!
But Thy eternal throne--Thy palace bright,
Zion--stands steadfast in unchanging might;
Zion--Thy own peculiar seat--Thy home!
But here, O GOD! here is Thy temple too:
Heaven’s sapphire arch is its resplendent dome;
Its columns--trees that have for ages stood;
Its incense is the flower-perfumed dew;
Its symphony--the music of the wood;
Its ornaments--the fairest gems of spring;
Its altar is the stony mountain proud!
Lord! from this shrine to Thy abode I bring
Trembling, devotion’s tribute--though not loud.
Nor pomp-accompanied: Thy praise I sing,
And Thou wilt deign to hear the lowly offering.
MEDINA.
_From the Khersonida._
Thou wondrous brother of the prophet, sun!
So brightly on Medina’s temple burning;
And scarce less beautiful the crescent moon,
When moving gently o’er the shadows dun
Of evening:--and their verge to silver turning.
O what a lovely, soft tranquillity
Rests on the earth and breathes along the sea!
Here is no cedar bent with misery;
No holy cypress sighs or weeps, as seen
In other lands, where his dark branches green
Mourn in the desert o’er neglected graves:
Here his all-sheltering boughs he calmly waves
In the dim light, the sacred vigils keeping
O’er the blest ashes on earth’s bosom sleeping.
Picture of God! upon the prophet’s shrine
Shine brightly--brightly, beautifully shine
Upon those holy fields where once he trod,
And flowers sprung up beneath his innocent feet,
Tulips and aloes and narcissus’ sweet,
A lovely carpet for the child of God!
There have our privileged, pilgrim footsteps been,
This have we seen--yes, brother! this have seen:
The grave, the life, the ashes, and the dome
Eternal and the heavens: and there have bought
The grace of God and found the joy we sought,
A certain entrance to our final home.
And now, be short our houseward way!
Our fathers’ habitations now appear!
O with what transports shall we hear them say,
With what loud greetings, “Welcome, welcome here!”
The swelling-bosom’d wife, the black-hair’d son
And black-eyed daughter greet our joyous train,
Rushing from our own doors they hither run,
And songs of rapture loudly hail us then.
Their trembling hands the fragrant aloe bear,
Which joyful o’er our wearied limbs they throw;
Home of our fathers! now appear,
Our houseward path be shortened now!
SHEIK-HUIABIS CREED,
AS DESCRIBED BY THE CHERIF.
_From the Khersonida._