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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:38:35 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:38:35 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11985-0.txt b/11985-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..af9746b --- /dev/null +++ b/11985-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3410 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11985 *** + +_Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_ + + THE KISS OF APOLLO + + GABRIELLE AND OTHER POEMS. + + THE SIN OF ANGELS: A Novel + + A COSSACK LOVER: A Novel + + THE CUCKOO'S NEST: A Novel + + A MODERN PROMETHEUS: A Novel of Italy. With a frontispiece + + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS. + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS + + +SONGS OF COSSACK, LOVER, +PATRIOT AND PEASANT + +_DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE_ + +BY +MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI + +_Author of "Within the Hedge," "The Cathedral," "A Modern Prometheus," +"The Cuckoo's Nest" etc_. + +NEW YORK +DUFFIELD AND COMPANY +1916 + +COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY +DUFFIELD AND COMPANY + + +_To +"A soul of passion, mirth and tears_." + + + +CONTENTS + +The Song of the Kazak................................ Pushkin +Cradle Song of a Cossack Mother................... Lermontoff +The Dagger........................................ Lermontoff +Don't Give Me the Wine!..........(From the Georgian of Prince + Tschawtschawadze) +The Delibash......................................... Pushkin +To the Don........................................... Pushkin +The Caucas........................................... Pushkin +The Cloister on Kasbek............................... Pushkin +Goblins of the Steppes............................... Pushkin +Under a Portrait of Jukowsky......................... Pushkin +The Vision........................................... Pushkin +I Loved Thee......................................... Pushkin +Serenade............................................. Pushkin +A Winter Evening..................................... Pushkin +The Last Flower...................................... Pushkin +Stanzas from "Onegin" + Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer................ Pushkin + Sometimes He read Aloud with Olga.................. Pushkin + Love Condescends to Every Altar.................... Pushkin + How Sad to Me is Thine Appearing................... Pushkin +The Memorial......................................... Pushkin +Tamara............................................ Lermontoff +The Gift of the Terek............................. Lermontoff +On Departure for the Caucas....................... Lermontoff +To the Clouds..................................... Lermontoff +To My Country..................................... Lermontoff +To Kasbek......................................... Lermontoff +The Angel......................................... Lermontoff +A Prayer.......................................... Lermontoff +The Sail.......................................... Lermontoff +I Am Not Byron.................................... Lermontoff +Like An Evil Spirit............................... Lermontoff +To A.C.S.......................................... Lermontoff +A Song............................................ Lermontoff +From Démon........................................ Lermontoff +The Prayer........................................ Lermontoff +The Palm Branch of Palestine...................... Lermontoff +The Dispute....................................... Lermontoff +Heaven and the Stars.............................. Lermontoff +On Napoleon's Death............................... Lermontoff +On the Death of Pushkin........................... Lermontoff +Russia, O My Russia, Hail!........................... Tolstoy +The Wolves........................................... Tolstoy +Autumn............................................... Tolstoy +Burnt Out Is Now My Misery........................... Tolstoy +In Hours of Ebbing Tide.............................. Tolstoy +Swans................................................. Maikow +To Sleep.............................................. Maikow +In Memory of My Daughter.............................. Maikow +Mother and Child...................................... Maikow +An Easter Greeting.................................... Maikow +At Easter............................................. Maikow +O Mountains of My Native Country!..................... Maikow +The Aeolian Harp...................................... Maikow +Ye Songs of Mine!.................................. Nekrassow +In War............................................. Nekrassow +A Song of Siberian Exiles.......................... Nekrassow +Freedom............................................ Nekrassow +A Farewell......................................... Nekrassow +The Love Letter.................................... Nekrassow +What the Sleepless Grandam Thinks.................. Nekrassow +To Russia............................................ Nikitin +The Song of the Spendthrift.......................... Nikitin +The Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould....... Nikitin +Gossip............................................... Nikitin +In a Peasant Hut..................................... Nikitin +Winter Night in the Village.......................... Nikitin +The Birch Tree....................................... Nikitin +North and South...................................... Nikitin +Hunger............................................... Fofanow +Faded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden......... Fofanow +The Beggar........................................... Fofanow +With Roses...................... (From the Georgian of Prince + Tschawtschawadze) +The Stars........... (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine) +Whispers and the Timid Breathing.......... ("Fete Chenchine") +The Tales of the Stars.............................. Fofanow +One Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love................. (Gipsy Song) +A Gipsy Song........................................ Polonsky +At Last.......................................... Plestcheeff +By An Open Window................. The Grand Duke Constantine +With the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!.... Nadson +The Poet.............................................. Nadson +To the Muse........................................... Nadson +A Fragment............................................ Nadson +In May................................................ Nadson +In Memory of N.M.D.................................... Nadson +At the Grave of N.M.D................................. Nadson +In Dreams............................................. Nadson +The Old Grey House.................................... Nadson +Call Him Not Dead,--He Lives!......................... Nadson + +Brief Biographical Notes: + Alexander Sergjewitsch Pushkin + Michail Jurjewitsch Lermontoff + Count Alexis Constantinowitsch Tolstoy + Apollon Nikolajewitsch Maikow + Nikolai Alexajewitsch Nekrassow + Ivan Ssawitsch Nikitin + Constantine Michailowitsch Fofanow + Semijon Jakolowitsch Nadson + + + + +To the Reader. + +The translations in this little collection make no pretension to being +more than an effort to share the delight found in them; from which most +of the world is debarred by the difficulty of the language in which they +are written. They have been chosen at random, each for some intrinsic +charm or because of its bearing upon some peculiar phase of the author. +Very few of the lyrics of Pushkin have been included, for the reason +that the great founder of Russian poetry has been more widely translated +than any other Russian poet, and is therefore available in several +languages. + +Remembering always that Heine declared translation was betrayal,--the +rhyme and smoothness have in every case been sacrificed when necessary +to preserve the exact rhythm, and as far as possible the vigour and +colour, as well as thought of the original; a task entirely beyond me +save for the co-operation of an accomplished Russian linguist who has +kindly assisted in the literal translation of every poem here presented. + +M.G.D.B. + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS AND +COSSACK SONGS + + + + +THE SONG OF THE KAZAK + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, + Kazak has never heart for rest, +Not on the field, nor in the wood, + Nor when in face of danger pressed +His steed the raging stream must breast! + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, +With him a mighty power brings, +To win the honour of his land + Kazak his life unheeding flings-- +Till fame of him eternal sings! + +Kazak brought all Siberia +At foot of Russia's throne to lie, +Kazak left glory in the Alps, + His name the Turk can terrify, +His flag he ever carries high! + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, +Kazak has never heart for rest, +Not on the field, nor in the wood, + Nor when in face of danger pressed +His steed the raging stream must breast! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half--Kazák_. + + + + +CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER + +Slumber sweet, my fairest baby, + Slumber calmly, sleep-- +Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber, + In thy cradle creep; +I will tell to thee a story, + Pure as dewdrop glow, +Close those two beloved eyelids-- + Lullaby, By-low! + +List! The Terek o'er its pebbles + Blusters through the vale, +On its shores the little Khirgez + Whets his murdrous blade; +Yet thy father grey in battle-- + Guards thee, child of woe, +Safely rest thee in thy cradle, + Lullaby, By-low! + +Grievous times will sure befall thee, + Danger, slaughterous fire-- +Thou shalt on a charger gallop, + Curbing at desire; +And a saddle girth all silken + Sadly I will sew, +Slumber now my wide-eyed darling, + Lullaby, By-low! + +When I see thee, my own Being, + As a Cossack true, +Must I only convoy give thee-- + "Mother dear, adieu!" +Nightly in the empty chamber + Blinding tears will flow, +Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one, + Lullaby, By-low! + +Thy return I'll wait lamenting + As the days go by, +Ardent for thee praying,--fearing + In the cards to spy. +I shall fancy thou wilt suffer, + As a stranger grow-- +Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest, + Lullaby, By-low! + +I will send a holy image + 'Gainst the foe with thee, +To it kneeling, dearest Being, + Pray with piety! +Think of me in bloody battle, + Dearest child of woe, +Slumber soft within thy cradle, + Lullaby, By-low! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE DAGGER + +I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence-- + I love the beauty of thy glitter cold, +A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war, + Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold. + +A lily hand, in parting's silent woe, + Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade; +Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewed + With sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade. + +Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul, + Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain-- +Like thine own steel within the fire's glow, + Flashed forth to me--then faded dull again. + +For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed, + In my life's night to guide me to my end; +Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever, + Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +DON'T GIVE ME THE WINE! + +Don't give me the wine! + I am drunk of my love, +With the force of my passion for you! +Don't give me the wine! + Or my tongue will betray +All the love no one dreamed hitherto; +For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast, +All the bitter hot tears that were mine, +My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest-- +I am drunk of my love,--don't give me the wine! + +You promise me roses now, if I will drink +But one drop of the wine;--if you please +Give only one breath from the rose of your lips! +And death's cup I will drain to the lees. +All passions are raging at once in my blood, +Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine. +You seem for my suffering only to wish-- +I am drunk of my love! + Don't give me the wine! + +_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_. + + + + +THE DELIBASH + +With the hostile camp in skirmish + Our men once were changing shot, +Pranced the Delibash his charger + 'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot. + +Trifle not with free-born Cossacks! + Nor too o'er foolhardy be! +Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for-- + On his pike he'll skewer thee! + +'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound, + Off thy head, at lightning speed +With his scimitar he'll sever + From thy trunk! He will indeed! + +What confusion! What a roaring! + Halt! thou devil's pack, have care! +On the pike is lanced the horseman-- + Headless stands the Cossack there! + +PUSHKIN. + +_Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur_. + + + + +TO THE DON + +Through the Steppes, see there he glances! + Silent flood glad hailed by me,-- +Thy far distant sons do proffer + Through me, greeting fond to thee! + +Every stream knows thee as brother, + Don, thou river boasted wide! +The Araxes and Euphrates + Send thee greeting as they glide. + +Fresh and strengthened for pursuing, + Scenting home within thy gleam-- +Drink again the Don'ish horses, + Flowing boundary, of thy stream! + +Faithful Don! There also greet thee + Thy true warriors bold and free-- +Let thy vineyard's foaming bubbles + In the glass be spilled to thee! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack_. + + + + +THE CAUCAS + +The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand where + Glaciers gleam, beside a precipice rock-ribbed; +An eagle that has soared from off some distant cliff, +Lawless as I, sweeps through the radiant air! +Here I see streams at their sources up-welling, +The grim avalanches unrolling and swelling! + +The soft cloudy convoys are stretched forth below, +Tattered by thronging mad torrents descending; +Beneath them the naked rocks downward are bending, +Still deeper, the wild shrubs and sparse herbage grow; +But yonder the forests stand verdant in flora +And birds are a'twitter in choiring chorus. + +Yonder, cliff-nested-are dwellings of mortals, +There pasture the lambs in sweet blossoming meadows-- +There couch the herds in the cool deepening shadows-- +There roar the Aragua's blue sparkling waters, +And lurketh the bandit safe hid in lone caverns, +Where Terek, wild sporting, is cutting the azure! + +It leaps and it howls like some ravening beast +At first sight of feeding, through grating of iron-- +It roars on the shore with a furious purring, +It licks on the pebbles with eagerest greed. +Vain struggle and rancor and hatred, alas! +'Tis enchained and subdued by the unheeding mass. + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE CLOISTER ON KASBEK + +KASBEK, thy regal canopy + High o'er all peaks revealed I see +By an eternal icy glare. +Hanging in cloudless glory ever-- +Like to an ark thy cloister there; +This world disturbing thy peace never, +Blest realm of joy remote in air! +Ah could I at thy mercy's threshold, +From durance cursed set myself free, +And in thine own etherial cloisters +Near thy Creator ever be! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +GOBLINS OP THE STEPPES + +Stormy clouds delirious straying, +Showers of whirling snowflakes white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Further speeds the sledge, and further, +Loud the sleighbell's melody, +Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming, +'Mid these snow fields now to be! + +Hasten! "That is useless, Master, +Heavier for my team their load, +And my eyes with snow o'er plastered +Can no longer see the road! +Lost all trace of our direction, +Sir, what now? The goblins draw +Us already round in circles, +Pull the sledge with evil claw! + +See! One hops with frantic gesture, +In my face to grin and hiss, +See! It goads the frenzied horses +Onward to the black abyss! +In the darkness, like a paling +One stands forth,--and now I see +Him like walking-fire sparkling-- +Then the blackness,--woe is me!" + +Stormy clouds delirious straying, +Showers of snowflakes whirling white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Sudden halt the weary horses, +Silent too the sleighbells whirr-- +Look! What crouches on the ground there? +"Wolf,--or shrub,--I know not, Sir." + +How the wind's brood rage and whimper! +Scenting, blow the triple team; +See! One hops here! Forward Driver! +How his eyes with evil gleam! +Scarce controllable the horses, +How the harness bells resound! +Look! With what a sneering grimace +Now the spirit band surround! + +In an endless long procession, +Formless, countless of their kind +Circle us in flying coveys +Like the leaves in Autumn wind. +Now in ghastly silence deathly, +Now with shrilling elfin cry-- +Is it some mad dance of bridal, +Or a death march passing by? + +Stormy clouds delirious straying +Showers of snowflakes whirling white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Cloudward course the evil spirits +In unceasing phantom bands, +And their moaning and bewailing +Grip my heart with icy hands! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY + +The charm and sweetness of his magic verse + Will mock the envious years for centuries! +Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns, + The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees, +And careless joy to wistful musing turns. + +PUSHKIN. + +_Jukowsky was a Russian poet_. + + + + +THE VISION + +I remember a marvellous instant, +Unto me bending down from above, +Thy radiant vision appearing +As an angel of beauty and love. +'Mid the torments of desperate sadness, +In the torture of bondage and sighs, +To me rang thy voice so beloved-- +And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes. +But the years rolled along--and life's tempests +My illusions, my youth overcame, +I forgot that sweet voice full of music-- +And thy glance like a heavenly flame. +In the covert and grief of my exile, +The days stretched unchanged in their flight, +Bereft inspiration or power, +Bereft both of love and of light. +To my soul now approaches awakening, +To me thou art come from above, +As a radiant and wonderful vision-- +As an angel of beauty and love. +As before my heart throbs with emotion, +Life looks to me worthy and bright, +And I feel inspiration and power-- +And again love and tears and the light! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +I LOVED THEE + +I loved thee; and perchance until this moment +Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! +Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal, +Nothing shall rouse again the old desire! + +I loved thee with a silent desperation-- +Now timid, now with jealousy brought low, +I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion-- +Ah may God grant another love thee so! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +A SERENADE + +I watch Inesilla + Thy window beneath, +Deep slumbers the villa + In night's dusky sheath. + +Enamoured I linger, + Close mantled, for thee-- +With sword and with guitar, + O look once on me! + +Art sleeping? Wilt wake thee + Guitar tones so light? +The argus-eyed greybeard + My swift sword shall smite. + +The ladder of ropes + Throw me fearlessly now! +Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet, + Been false to thy vow? + +I watch Inesilla + Thy window beneath, +Deep slumbers the villa + In night's dusky sheath! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +A WINTER EVENING + +Sable clouds by tempest driven, +Snowflakes whirling in the gales, +Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, +Hark--now like a child it wails! +Creeping through the rustling straw thatch, +Rattling on the mortared walls, +Like some weary wanderer knocking-- +On the lowly pane it falls. + +Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen, +Drear and lonely our retreat, +Speak a word and break the silence, +Dearest little Mother, sweet! +Has the moaning of the tempest +Closed thine eyelids wearily? +Has the spinning wheel's soft whirring +Hummed a cradle song to thee? + +Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, +Thou true-souled companion dear-- +Let us drink! Away with sadness! +Wine will fill our hearts with cheer. +Sing the song how free and careless +Birds live in a distant land-- +Sing the song of maids at morning +Meeting by the brook's clear strand! + +Sable clouds by tempest driven, +Snowflakes whirling in the gales, +Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, +Hark--now like a child it wails! +Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, +Thou true-souled companion dear, +Let us drink! Away with sadness! +Wine will fill our hearts with cheer! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE LAST FLOWER + +Rich the first flower's graces be, +But dearer far the last to me; +My spirit feels renewal sweet, +Of all my dreams hope or desire-- +The hours of parting oft inspire +More than the moments when we meet! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE COMING OF THE WINTER + +_Stanzas from "Onegin"_ + +Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer, +Than Southern Winter scarce more bland-- +Is undeniably withdrawing +On fleeting footsteps from the land. +Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens, +The light of sunbeams rarer grown-- +Already every day is shorter, +While with a smitten hollow tone +The forest drops its shadow leafage; +Upon the fields the mists lie white, +In lusty caravans the wild geese +Now to the milder South take flight; +Seasons of tedium draw near, +Before the door November drear! + +From shivering mist ascends the morning, +The bustle, of the fields declines, +The wolf walks now upon the highway, +In wolfish hunger howls and whines; +The traveller's pony scents him, snorting-- +The heedful wanderer breathless takes +His way in haste beyond the mountains! +And though no longer when day breaks +Forth from their stalls the herd begins +To drive the kine,--his noon-day horn recalls. +The peasant maiden sings and spins, +Before her crackling, flaming bright +The pine chips,--friend of Winter night. + +And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles +And spreads its silver o'er the fields, +Alas! the golden days are vanished! +Reluctant Nature mournful yields. +The stream with ice all frozen over +Gleams as some fashionable parquét, +And thronging hordes of boyish skaters +Sweep forward on its crystal way. +On her red claws despondent swimming, +The plump goose parts the water cold, +Then on the ice with caution stalking +She slips and tumbles,--ah behold! +Now the first snowflake idling down +Stars the depressing landscape brown. + +At such a season in the country, +What can a man's amusements be? +Walk? And but more of empty highway +And of deserted village see? +Or let him through the far Steppes gallop, +His horse can scarcely stand at all-- +His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold, +The rider dreading lest he fall! +So then remain within thy paling, +Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott, +Compare thy varying editions, +Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not! +As the long evenings drag away +So doth the Winter too delay. + +PUSHKIN. + +_[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of +Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw +were demanded_.] + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +Sometimes he read aloud with Olga +A latter day romance discreet, +Whose author truly painted nature, +With cunning plot, insight complete; +Oft he passed over a few pages, +Too bald or tasteless in their art-- +And coloring, began on further, +Not to disturb the maiden heart. +Again, they sat for hours together, +With but a chess board to divide; +She with her arms propped on the table, +Deep pondering, puzzled to decide-- +Till Lenski from his inward storm +Captured her castle with his pawn! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +Love condescends to every altar, +Ah when in hearts of youth it springs, +Its coming brings such glad refreshment +As May rain o'er the pasture flings! +Lifted from passion's melancholy +The life breaks forth in fairer flower, +The soul receives a new enrichment-- +Fruition sweet and full of power. +But when on later altars arid +It downward sweeps, about us flows-- +Love leaves behind such deathly traces +As Autumn tempests where it blows +To strip the woods with ruthless hand, +And turn to soggy waste the land! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +How sad to me is thine appearing, +O Springtime, hour of love's unrest! +Within the soul what nameless languors! +What passions hid within the breast! +With what a heavy, heavy spirit +From the earth's rustic lap I feel +Again the joy of Springtide odors-- +That once could make my spirit reel! +No more for me such pleasures thrilling, +All that rejoices, that has life, +All that exults,--brings but despondence +To one past passion as past strife, +All is but prose to such as he, +Wearied unto satiety. + +Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed +That which in Autumn drooped and pined, +Now radiant in verdure springing, +Since it must of our loss remind; +As with a tortured soul we realize +In Nature's glad awakening, +That we shall never find renewal, +Who evermore are withering. +Perchance there haunts us in remembrance, +Our own most dear and lyric dream, +Another long forgotten Springtime-- +And trembling neath this pang supreme, +The heart faints for a distant country +And for a night beside the sea! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE MEMORIAL + +Beyond compare the monument I have erected, +And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,-- +Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar + The Emperor Alexander hath! + +I shall not vanish wholly,--No! but young forever +My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring, +And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance + While yet one Singer lives to sing. + +My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia, +Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide, +The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me-- + The Tungoose in his reindeer hide. + +Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished, +Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed, +In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom, + And never for their pleasures blamed. + +O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever! +Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain-- +Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation, + And argument with Fools disdain! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The Alexander column, standing before the Winter Palace at St. +Petersburg, is a monolith eighty feet high; with the pedestal measuring +one hundred and fifty feet_. + + + + +TAMARA + +Where waves of the Terek are waltzing + In Dariel's wickedest pass, +There rises from bleakest of storm crags + An ancient grey towering mass. + +In this tower by mad winds assaulted, + Sat ever Tamara, the Queen-- +A heavenly angel of beauty, + With a spirit of hell's own demesne. + +Through the mist of the night her gold fires + Gleamed down through the valley below, +A welcome they threw to the pilgrim, + In their streaming and beckoning glow. + +How clear rang the voice of Tamara! + How amorous did it invite! +The heart of the stranger enticing, + Seducing with magic delight! + +The warrior was snared by her singing, + Nor noble, nor herd could withstand-- +Then noiseless her portal was opened + By eunuchs of shadowy hand. + +With pearls rare adorned and strange jewels, + Reposed on a billowy nest, +A prey to voluptuous longing, + Tamara awaited her guest. + +With passioned and thrilling embracement, + With straining of breast unto breast, +With sighing and trembling and transport-- + In lust's unrestrained, giddy zest-- + +So revelled 'mid desolate ruins, + Of Lovers,--past counting at least! +In their bridal night's wild distraction, + And in truth at their own death feast. + +For when from the peaks of the mountains + The sun tore the night's veiling soft, +There reigned anew only the silence + On turret and casement aloft. + +And only the Terek bewailing + With fury broke in on the hush, +As dashing her billows on billows + Her writhing floods onward did rush. + +A youth's form her currents are bearing, + Ah vainly they murmur and swell! +A woman, a pale and a fair one-- + Cries down from her tower "Farewell!" + +Her voice has the sound of faint weeping, + So amorous, tender and sweet-- +As if she in love's holy rapture + Did promise of meeting repeat! + +LERMONTOFF. + +[_Tamara is the Russian Lorelei. The ruins of her castle are still shown +in the pass of Darjal on the famous Georgian Road_.] + + + + +THE GIFT OF THE TEREK + +Through the rocks in wildest courses + Seethes the Terek grim of mood, +Tempest howling its bewailing, + Pearled with foam its tearful flood. + +At the mountain's feet soft streaming, + Gentler grown its murmurs be, +And with greeting full of fawning + Speaks to the Caspian Sea: + +"Hospitable part thy billows, + Give me room, oh Ocean grave! +From a distance drawing thither-- + Scarce my weary currents wave. + +Born upon the edge of Kasbek, + By the breast of clouds renewed, +Hatred have I sworn to mankind, + Who with us, the free, make feud. + +See, by rage of my own fury + Lies despoiled my Darjal home, +And as playthings for thy children, + Pebbles bearing now I come." + +Yet upon her strands a'dreaming, + Mute the grey Sea did remain, +And the Terek, silver foaming, + Spoke caressingly again. + +"Grey Sea I would serve thee only, + Have a present borne to-day-- +See, 'tis a young Carabineer + Who has fallen in the fray. + +How his coat of mail is gleaming + Silver on the billows' span! +Golden on his trappings shining + Blessing of the Alcoran! + +Menacing the one who slew him + Scowls the brow's relentless feud, +By his noble life blood crimsoned + O'er his lips his hair is glued. + +Through the half-closed eyelids glancing + Still the lust of quarrel mocks, +From his head deep underneath him + Flow the matted raven locks." + +Motionless upon her beaches + Did the grey Sea still remain, +And the Terek foaming yellow + In displeasure spoke again. + +"So then, take him as a present, + As I nothing fairer know +On this round earth,--for thee only + This rare prize I've guarded so! + +'Tis a mountain Cossack's body + Wafted 'mid my billows' dance, +See his hair,--no silk is softer-- + See his shoulder's gold expanse! + +See how o'er his red lips speechless + Now the seated eyes find rest; +Trickling yet the purple life blood + From the small wound on his breast. + +For a young and holy maiden, + Weeps lamenting, every heart! +One sole Cossack in the village, + In this mourning takes no part. + +From the confines of his country + Rode he forth with boding grey, +'Neath the dagger of the Tscherkes + He has breathed his soul away." + +And the Terek paused; behold now + In the gleaming foam flood drowned, +Silvered in the spraying billows + Dips a head with rushes crowned. + +And the hoary one's lips whisper + Haughty words of youthful fire, +And the eyes lit with love lustre + Flame with passionate desire. + +Foaming, rushing on swift longing, + Seethed he up in youthful zest-- +And the Terek flood was wedded + With him in embraces blest. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON DEPARTURE FOR THE CAUCAS + +Farewell my hateful Russian country! + People of lord and serf you are-- +Farewell, salute, bent knee and hand-kiss, + Three-masters, uniform and star! + +Soon will the Caucas now conceal me, + There I shall not discovered be +By eyes and ears of paid, false sergeants-- + Who all do hear and all do see! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO THE CLOUDS + +Clouds--ye eternal wanderers in hunting grounds of air, +High o'er the verdant Steppes, wide through the blue of heaven-- +Coursing fraternal,--say, must ye exiled as I +From the beloved North to the far South be driven? + +O tell me, were ye outlawed thus by Fate's behest? +Drives ye forth open hate, or secret grudge flee ye? +Follows ye unappeased an evil-doer's curse? +Are ye pursued by poisonous words of calumny? + +Ah no! Only from the unfruitful earth ye fly; +Free are your sufferings, your blessedness is free, +Ye know not wretchedness that holds us here in chains, +Know not the joy of home or exile's misery! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO MY COUNTRY + +With love of my own race I cling unto my country, +Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry; +The shame alone of all her blood bought glory, +Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride, +And the ancestral faith's traditions dark, +With woe have penetrated all my heart. + +And yet I love it! Why, I cannot say; +The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding, +In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing-- +The flood's high water on all sides in May. +By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness, +Through the lone wilderness and village desolate, +How hospitable shines the sole beam sparkling +To me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great, +The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled high +The wagons silent standing take their nightly rest, +On distant hills the silver birches I descry, +Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest. +Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant, +I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant, +The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again, +The window panels carved, of varied stain. + +Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested, +Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd, +Watching the villager,--young, happy, festive-- +And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO KASBEK + +With wingéd footsteps now I hasten +Unto the far cold North away, +Kasbek,--thou watchman of the East, +To thee, my farewell greetings say! + +Since all eternity, a turban +Snow white, thy glorious brow has veiled, +The peace sublime about thy glacier +The strife of man has ne'er assailed. + +Accept my humble supplication, +Hear thy submissive faithful son, +To starry heights lift his entreaty +To Allah's everlasting throne. + +I do implore--spice breathing coolness +Through sultry sun-glow in the vale, +A stone for rest unto the pilgrim +In whirling dust of desert gale. + +Turn, I implore, the storm's hot hatred, +The deadly thunderous lightning's course-- +In Dariel's wild pass protect me +And my distracted, trembling horse. + +Yet one prayer more my heart audacious, +Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress, +What if my native land forget me +In my sad exile's loneliness? + +Will, greeting me by name familiar, +My friend then open wide his arms? +Will e'en my brothers recognise me, +So changed by many griefs and harms? + +Perchance my foot will fall profaning +Dust of those loved in youth's far day, +The pure and noble, deeply trusted-- +Withered as Autumn leaves in May. + +O Kasbek, then with earth o'erwhelm me! +Snow o'er thy weary wanderer back, +And blow away my dust and scatter +Along thy rock-ridged clefts lone track! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE ANGEL + +Soft singing at midnight through heaven's high blue + A beautiful angel once flew; +The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng + Attended his wonderful song! + +He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coasts + Where live and exult the pure ghosts, +Their songs glad extolling Almighty's grace + Repeated from race unto race. + +In his arms he was bearing a young soul below, + To leave in this world of our woe, +The strains of his singing within her soul beat-- + A wordless song, living and sweet! + +Long languished her soul in its earthly abode, + With a heavenly longing o'erflowed, +For ne'er were those holy, pure strains of her birth, + Effaced by the songs of the earth. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +A PRAYER + +Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling, +Image miraculous and merciful--of thee +Not for my soul's health nor battles waged, beseeching, +Nor yet with thanks or penitence o'erwhelming me! + +Not for myself,--my heart with guilt o'erflowing-- +Who in my home land e'er a stranger has remained, +No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing, +That thou protect her innocence unstained! + +Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her! +Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side, +A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil, +A spirit where together peace and hope abide. + +Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending, +Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night-- +From out thy highest heaven, thy fairest angel sending +The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE SAIL + +A single sail is bleaching brightly + Upon the waves caressing bland, +What seeks it in a stranger country? + Why did it leave its native strand? +When winds pipe high, load roar the billows + And with a crashing bends the mast, +It does not shun its luckless fortune, + Nor haste to port before the blast. +To-day the sea is clear as azure, + The sun shines gaily, faint the wind-- +But it revolting, looks for tempest, + And dreams in storms its peace to find! + +LERMONTOFF. + +_Lermontoff, being reproached by the critics of his time for imitation +of Byron in this poem, defended himself by the following, "I am not +Byron!"_ + + + + +I AM NOT BYRON + +I am not Byron--yet I am +One fore-elected, yet one more +Unknown, world-hunted wanderer, +A Russian in my mood and mind. + +Scant from my seed the corn was ripe, +My mouth spoke young, was early hushed; +In depths of my own soul, the wreck +Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk. + +Who shall the counsels of the sea, +Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall +Read clear my spirit and my soul? +Unless it be a Poet--no man! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +LIKE AN EVIL SPIRIT + +Like an evil spirit hast thou + Shocked my heart from out its rest, +If thou'lt take it quite away now-- + Thou wilt win my healing blest! + +My heart thy temple evermore! + Thy face,--the altar's Godhead sign! +Not heaven's grace,--thy smiles, restore, + Grant absolution, joy divine! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO A.C.S. + +Afar--I fain, so much would tell thee! +List to thee o'er and o'er when near; +Yet passioned glances thou dost silence-- +My words bind to my lips in fear. +How, by mere homely speaking, can I +E'en hope to captivate thine ears? +I swear it would be food for laughter-- +If it were not more fit for tears! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +A SONG + +Dry leaf trembling on the branches + Before the blast, +Poor heart quaking in the bosom + For woe thou hast; +Ah what matter if the wind then, + Withered leaf from blooming linden +Should scatter wide? + Would for this the twig or branches + Have wailing sighed? +And should the lad his fate upbraid, + Although he ignominious fade-- +And in an alien country die? + Will for him the beauteous maid + Complaining cry? + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +FROM "DÉMON" + +Sailless and without a rudder, + On the ocean of the air-- +Float the choirs of stars harmonious, + 'Mid the mists eternal there; +Fleecy flocks of clouds elusive + Drift across immensity, +Leaving ne'er a track behind them, + Following their destiny. +Hour of parting, hour of meeting + They know not,--nor grief, nor rest-- +Theirs no longing for the future, + Theirs no sorrow for the past. +By thy day of anguish broken, + Think of them and calm thy woe-- +Be indifferent as they are + To the pangs of earth below! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE PRAYER + +When faints the heart for sorrow, + In life's hard, darkened hour, +My spirit breathes a wondrous prayer + Full of love's inward power. + +There is a might inspiring + Each consecrated word, +That speaks the inconceivable + And holy will of God. + +The heavy load slips from my heart-- + Oppressing doubt takes flight, +The soul believes, the tears break forth-- + And all is light, so light! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE PALM BRANCH OF PALESTINE + +Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me, + In that far distant home-land fair, +Wast rooted in the mountain gravel + Or sprung from some vale garden rare? + +Once o'er the Jordan's silver billows + Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun? +Have the grim gales 'neath starry heavens + Swept over thee from Lebanon? + +And was a trembling prayer soft whispered, + A father's song sung over thee-- +When from the parent stem dis-severed + By some poor aborigine? + +And is the palm tree ever standing, + Amid the fierce glare beating down, +The pilgrim in the desert luring + To shelter 'neath her shadow crown? + +Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiver +In unappeaséd parting pain, +The branch conceals a homesick longing + For desert wilderness again? + +Was it a pilgrim who first brought thee + To the cold North, with pious hand? +Who mused upon his home in sadness, + And dost thou bear his tear's hot brand? + +Was it Jehovah's favored warrior, + His gleaming head transfigured bright, +For God and man true-sworn, devoted + Unto the victory of light? + +Before the wonder-working image + Thou stand'st as heaven's defence divine, +O branch from out that holy country, + The sanctuary's shield and sign! + +It darkens, golden lamp light splendors + Enveil the cross, the sacred shrine-- +The peace of God is wafted o'er us + From thee, oh branch of Palestine! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE DISPUTE + +Once 'mid group of native mountains + Hot dispute arose, +Elbrus, angry, did with Kasbek + Argument propose. +"Now beware!" the hoary Elbrus, + Warning did exclaim-- +"To enslave thee and enthrall thee + Is man's evil aim! +Smoking huts he will be building + On thy mountain side, +Loudly through thy clefts resounding + Ring his hatchet wide! +The swift swinging iron shovel + Breast of stone will part, +Of thy bronze and stone will rob thee-- + Pierce thee to the heart. +Caravans, e'en now, are passing + Through thy rocks afar, +Where before the fogs were swimming-- + And the Eagle Tsar. +Ah, mankind is bold and fearless! + Dreads no lifted hand, +Guard thee! populous and mighty + Is the morning land!" +"Threatens me the East?" then queried + Kasbek with disdain, +"There eight centuries already + Sleeping, man has lain. +See, in shadow the Grusine + Gloats in lustful greed, +On his many coloured raiment + Glints the winey bead! +Drugged with fumes of his nargileh, + Dreams the Mussulman-- +By the fountains on his divan + Slumbers Teheran. +See! Jerusalem is lying + At his feet o'erthrown-- +Deathly dumb and lifeless staring + As an earthly tomb. +And beyond the Nile is washing + O'er the burning steps +Of the Kingly mausoleums, + Yellow, shadowless. +In his tent, the hunt forgotten-- + Now the Bedouin lies, +Sings the old ancestral legends, + Scans the starry skies. +See! far as the eye can venture, + All sleeps as before-- +No, the threat of dreaming Orient + Frights me nevermore!" +"Laugh thou not too early, Kasbek," + Elbrus did persist-- +"Look! What vast mass is it turning + Northward, through the mist?" +Secretly the heart of Kasbek + Faltered,--as amazed, +Silent and with dark foreboding + To the North he gazed: +Full of woe stared in the distance; + What a thronging swarm! +Hark! there rings the clash of weapons! + Battle-cry alarm! +From the Don unto the Ural + What a human sea! +Regiments that wave and glitter + Past all counting be! +Feathers white like sedge of ocean, + Waving in a gust-- +Many coloured Uhlans storming + Through the blowing dust. +The imperial battalions + Densely packed proceed, +Trumpets flaring, banners flying + In the victor's lead. +Batteries with brasses rattling + Conquering advance, +With their blood-red splendor flashing + Cannon matches glance. +And a battle-proved commander + Leads the army there-- +From whose eyes the lightning flashes, + 'Neath his snowy hair. +Swells the host until as Griesbach's + Billows roaring loud, +From the Eastward nears the army + As a thunder cloud. +Kasbek peered with sinister boding + Through the clouds,--would fain +Count his enemies approaching-- + Found it was in vain: +Threw one glance unto the mountains-- + Anguished, overcome, +O'er his brow drew close the vapours, + Was forever dumb. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +HEAVEN AND THE STARS + +Brilliant heavens of evening, + Distant stars clearly shining, + Bright as the rapture of childhood, +O why dare I send you nevermore greeting-- +Stars, who are shining as clear as my joy? + What is thy sorrow? + Mortals make question. + This is my sorrow; +The heavens and the stars are--heaven and stars ever, +I am alas! but a perishing man! + Forever mortal + Envies his neighbor; + I envy rather +Ye in your freedom, ye stars ever radiant, +And only would be in your places! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON NAPOLEON'S DEATH + +Cold hears thy soul the praise or cursing of posterity. +Quit of the human race, thou man of destiny! +They only could o'erthrow, who thee did elevate-- +Forever thus remains thy greatness great! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF PUSHKIN + +He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour, +A sacrifice to slander's lust; +The haughty Poet's head, the noblest, +Bowed on his wounded breast in dust. +No longer could his free soul suffer +The vulgar world's low infamy; +He rose against the world's opinion, +And as a hero, lone fell he. +He fell! To what avail the sobbing-- +The useless choir of tears and praise? +Wretched the stammering excuses! +The Fates have spoke,--no power allays! +Have ye not at all times together +His sacred genius baited sore, +The silent fury fanned to flaming, +Delighted in your work before? +O be triumphant! Earthly torment +The Poet soul did fully bear, +Extinguished are the lights inspired, +The laurel crown lies leafless there! +The murderer contemptuous gazing +Did stedfastly his weapon aim, +No swifter beat his heart, Assassin! +Nor shook his lifted hand for shame. +No wonder; from a distance came he +As an adventurer unknown, +For worthy title, star of order-- +Stood but his mad desire alone. +Sneering and self-complacent mocked he +The rights and customs of our land, +He could not understand our glory, +Against which he has raised his hand. + +"Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung, +The Singer even as the song he sung; +Who of a hot, heroic mood, +In death disgraceful shed his blood!"[1] + +Why did he leave his home life tranquil, +To seek the envious market place, +Where each free flame is suffocated, +Expose him to the assassin base? +The human breed, who had known better +Since earliest years of youth, than he-- +Why did he trust the false pretending +Of malice and hypocrisy? +Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him, +Gave him a martyr's crown instead, +And now the cruel thorns have pierced him +E'en to the blood of his proud head! +His last days were for him envenomed-- +Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved, +He died revenge a'thirst, accusing +That every hope his heart deceived! + +Mute evermore the magic echoes, +That ne'er shall wonders more reveal, +The Poet's home is dark and narrow-- +Upon the Singer's lips a seal. + +But ye, sons insolent and shameless-- +Defamers, faithless fathers, ye! +Who trod the pure soul of another +Beneath your feet, who zealously +Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling +For fame and freedom, hatred steeled! +Well may you sneer at truth and justice, +The law provides you screen and shield, +Only a higher law shall sentence! +A mighty Judge beyond assail +Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers, +The Highest Judge who does not fail! +So then calumniate with brazen courage, +Your hatred's fury nought restrains-- +Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for +One drop within the Poet's pure veins. + +LERMONTOFF. +[1] _These four lines are from Pushkin's own romantic poem, "Onegin."_ + + + + +RUSSIA, O MY RUSSIA, HAIL! + +Russia, O my Russia, hail! +Steeds as tempests flying, +Howling of the distant wolves, +Eagles high, shrill crying! +Hail, my Russia, hail! Hail high! +Hail thy green forests proud, +Hail thy silvery nightingales, +Hail Steppes and wind and cloud! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +THE WOLVES + +When the church-village slumbers + And the last songs are sung, +When the grey mist arising, + Is o'er the marshes hung, +'Tis then the woods forsaking, +Their way cross country taking, +Nine howling wolves come hungering for food. + +Behind the first,--the grey one,-- + Trot seven more of black, +Close on their hoary leader; + As rearguard of the pack +The red wolf limps, all bloody, +His paws with gore still ruddy +As after his companions grim he pants. + +When through the village lurking + Nought gives them check or fright, +No watch dog dares to bellow, + The peasant ghastly white, +His breath can scarce be taking, +His limbs withhold from shaking-- +While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips! + +About the church they circle + And softly slink away +To prowl about the priest's farm, + Then of a sudden they +Are round the drink shop turning, +Fain some bad word be learning-- +From peasants drinking noisily within. + +With fully thirteen bullets + Thy weapon must be armed, +And with a wad of goat's hair; + Then thou wilt fight unharmed. +Fire calmly,--and before all +Will the leader, the grey, fall, +The rest will surely follow one by one. + +When the cock wakes the village + From out its morning dream, +Thou wilt behold the corpses-- + Nine she-wolves by the stream! +On the right lies the grey one, +To left in frost the lame one-- +All bloody,--God pardon us sinners! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +AUTUMN + +Autumn 'tis! Our garden stands + Flowerless and bare, +Dizzy whirling yellow leaves + Fill the wind swept air. +Yet the distant mountain ash + In the vale below, +With our favorite berries red + Now begins to glow. +While with rapture and with pain + Throbbing in my breast, +Pressing hot thy hands in mine, + Silent, unexpressed-- +Fondly gazing in thine eyes, + Through my tears I see-- +That I can never tell thee + How dear thou art to me! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY + +Burnt out is now my misery-- + love's yearning +No more unspeakably torments my heart, +Yet bearable alone through thee, my being-- +All thou art not is idle, stale and dying, +Colourless, withered, dead,--save where thou art! + +If I no more through false suspicion trouble +Thy happiness,--nor more my blood inflames my veins, +It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover, +But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover +Always with soul of ardour true remains. + +So in their rapid fury mountain torrents +That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep, +Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot-- +Here in the vale are bound in the old currents, +To stream in future calm and clear and deep! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE + +In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea! + It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow; + O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrow +I swear I am no longer true to thee! + +The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy, + From far away, with joy, to the belovéd shore; + And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more, +Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +SWANS + +White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me! +Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew-- +From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew, +And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep, +And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep. +O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +TO SLEEP + +When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves, +Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves-- +Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep, +When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep; +When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings, +The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,-- +Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,--o'er grown +By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn. +And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown-- +Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound, +And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast-- +The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest. +A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds, +Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads, +Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses +And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER + +Clear on the night of my spirit, +To me shines the glance of a star, +It is she! My heart's little maiden! +From her glance gleams something afar, +Of victory, deathless, eternal-- +Something that musing, misgiving, +Pierces the essence of being! + +It cannot be! It cannot be! +She lives--soon she will waken; straightway +Will ope her pretty eyes,--glad she +Will prattle merry, laughing gay! +And when in tears beholding me-- +Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling, +"Papa--it is but playing--See! +I live,--yes! Leave off mourning!" + But cold and mute she lies, alas! + And motionless. + +Now in her coffin she lies, +Silent amid scented flowers-- +Ah what mute spirits in white +O'er her corpse circle and hover? +Are they the visions of bliss? +Are they all spirits of hope? +That during life lured her on-- + +Those to whom secretly oft +She had entrusted her soul? +They that accompanied her e'er, +Faithful in forest and field? +Silent they circle my child, +In tearful anguish embraced-- +Yet little actress she lies, +Smiling, closed lashes beneath; +See, she is laughing in truth-- +thou most merciless Death! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +MOTHER AND CHILD + +"Mother, why weepest thou ever + For my little sister fair? +She is now in heaven's kingdom-- + Ah, it must be wondrous there!" + +"Yes, she is in heaven's glory, + But in heaven's own land, alas! +There are no butterflies nor flowers-- + Nor meadows of velvet grass!" + +"But mother, God's blessed angels + There, rejoicing sing to Him!" +Forth from the sunset's rosy fires + Now cometh the midnight dim. + +Ah, the mother wants her baby-- + That she watched from the window wide, +When 'mid butterflies and blossoms + She played in the meadow's pride! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +AN EASTER GREETING + +The lark at sunrise trills it high-- +The greeting Christ is risen! +And through the wood the black-bird pipes +The greeting Christ is risen! +Beneath the eaves the swallows cry +The greeting Christ is risen! +Throughout the world man's heart proclaims +The greeting Christ is risen! +And echo answers from the grave +In truth, yes, He is risen! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +AT EASTER + +Drawing near the Easter Sunday +With the Easter-greeting kiss; +When I come, remember Dora-- +Not alone we suffer this! +Then, as were it for the first time-- +Kiss thou me and I kiss thee; +Thou with modest eyelids downcast, +I with but ill stifled glee! + +MAIKOW. + +_The religious custom of the Easter-greeting kiss prevails throughout +Russia_. + + + + +O MOUNTAINS OF MY NATIVE COUNTRY! + +"O mountains of my native country! O valleys of my home! +On you gleam Winter's snowflakes white and twinkle lambs of Summer-- +On you the rosy sunlight glows, you know no deathly shudder!" + +So, 'neath the earth did wistful yearn three homesick youths in Hades, +Who fain from out that under world to worlds above would hasten. + The first declared "We'll go in Spring!" The second "No, in Summer!" +"No," cried the third, "at harvesting, in time the grapes to gather!" +A listening maiden fair, o'erheard with heart resistless throbbing; +Upon her breast her arms she crossed and begged of them imploring-- + "O take me to the upper world!" Alone the youths made answer, +"That cannot be, you fairest maid, that you with us be taken! +Your heels would clatter as you speed, your dress would rustle silken, +Your rattling ornaments warn death to hear us all escaping." + +"My rustling dress I will unlace,--my ornaments forsaking, +Barefooted up the stairway steep will mute and cautious follow! +Ah, but too gladly would I gaze again on earthly living! +I fain my mother would console, sad for her daughter grieving-- +would my brothers twain behold, who for their sister sorrow!" + "O do not yearn, thou wretched child, for those thou lovest, ever! +Thy brothers in the village street now joyful lead the wrestling-- +And with the neighbors on the street thy mother gossips zestful!" + +MAIKOW. + + + + +THE AEOLIAN HARP + +The land lies parched in sun,--to heaven the air is still, +Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings' lost thrill; +Aeolian harps our native singers are,--and numb +Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow, +Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb +Their breath be suffocated in this sultry glow! +O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging, +Stormed through our native land,--Spirit with freedom rife! +How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringing +To greet the Godly power that promises new life! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +YE SONGS OF MINE! + +Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows + A living witness ye; +Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing + Tempestuous and free, +The hard heart of humanity assailing + As doth her cliffs the sea! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +IN WAR + +Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled, + By each new victim of the combat torn-- +Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity, + Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn. +Alas! the wife will find a consolation. + The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn. + +But somewhere is the one soul that remembers-- + That will remember unto death's dark shore, +Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother + Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore. +One soul there is that like the weeping willow + Can never raise its drooping branches more. + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +THE SONGS OF SIBERIAN EXILES + +We stand unbroken in our places, +Our shovels dare to take no rest, +For not in vain his golden treasure +God buried deep in earth's dark breast. + +Then shovel on and do not falter, +Humble and hopeful, clear we see-- +When Russia has grown rich and mighty, +Our grandchildren will grateful be! + + * * * * * + +Though streams the sweat in rivers downward, +Our arms from shoveling grown weak, +Our bodies frozen to an ice crust +While we new strength in slumber seek-- + +Sweating or freezing, we will bear it! +Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand, +For each stone is of use to Russia, +And each is given by our own hand! + +NEKRASSOW. + +_Written to a band of political exiles including some of the highest +aristocracy_. + + + + +FREEDOM + +Oft through my native land I roved before, +But never such a cheerful spirit bore. + +When on its mother's breast a child I spy-- +Hope in my inmost heart doth secret cry, + +"Boy, thou art born within a favoring time, +Thine eyes shall glad escape old sights of crime. + +Free as a child, thou can'st prove all and be +The forger sole of thine own destiny. + +Peasant remain,--as to thy father given-- +Or like the eagle swing thyself to heaven!" + +Castles in air I build! Man's spirit opes +To many ways to frustrate all my hopes. + +Though serfdom's sad conditions left behind, +Yet there be countless snares of varied kind!-- + +Well! Although the people soon may rend thee, +Let me, oh Freedom, a welcome send thee! + +NEKRASSOW. + +_Written shortly after the freeing of the serfs_. + + + + +A FAREWELL + +Farewell! Forget the days of trial, +Of grudge, ill humor, misery-- +Tempests of heart and floods of weeping, +And the revengeful jealousy. +Ah, but the days whereon the sun rose +To light love's wonder, and begot +In us the power of aspiration,-- +bless them and forget them not! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +THE LOVE LETTER + +Letter of love so strangely thrilling +With all your countless wonder yet, +Though Time our heart's hot fires have mastered, +Bringing a pang of pained regret! +The while your blest receiver holds you, +His banished passions still rebel, +No longer reason sacrifices +His sentiment,--so then farewell! +Destroyed be this love-token treasured! +For if 'tis read when time has flown, +Deep in the buried soul 'twill waken +The torment vanished days have known. +At first but a light scorn arousing +For silly childishness,--at last +With fiery yearning overwhelming, +And jealousy for all the past. + +O Thou, from whom a myriad letters +Speak with the breath of love to me, +Though my gaze rest on thee austerely, +Yet, yet,--I cannot part with thee! +Time has revealed with bitter clearness +How little thou with truth wert blessed, +How like a child my own behaviour-- +Yet, dear to me I still must save +This flower scentless, without colour, +From off my manhood's early grave! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +WHAT THE SLEEPLESS GRANDAM THINKS + +All through the cold night, beating wings shadowy + Sweep o'er the church-village poor,-- +Only one Grandam a hundred years hoary, + Findeth her slumber no more. + + +Harkens, if cocks to the dawn be not crowing, + Rolls on her oven and weeps, +Sees all her past rising up to confront her-- + O'er her soul shameful it creeps! + +"Woe to me sinner old! Woe! Once I cheated-- + When from the church door I ran, +And in the depths of the forest strayed hidden + With my beloved Ivan. + +"Woe to me! Burning in hell's leaping fires + Surely will soon be my soul! +I took a pair of eggs once at a neighbor's-- + Out from her hen--yes, I stole! + +"Once at the harvest at home I did linger-- + Swore I was deadly sick,--when +Taking my part in the drunken carousals + Saturday night with the men! + +"Light was I ever with soldiers! Yet cursing + God's name, when from me at last,-- +My own son they took for a soldier! + Even drank cream on a fast. + +"Woe to me sinner! Woe to me wretched one! + Woe! My heart broken will be! +Holy Madonna, have pity, have mercy! + Into court go not with me!" + +NEKRASSOW. + +_The stoves of the peasants are built so that they can sleep on top of +them in the extreme cold of Winter_. + + + + +TO RUSSIA + +'Neath a giant tent +Of the heavens blue, +Stretch the verdant Steppes; +Range beyond the view. + +On the distant rim +Lift the outlines proud, +Of their mountain walls +To the drifting cloud. + +Through the Steppes there rolls +Stream on stream to sea, +Wide meandering, +Straying far and free. + +Do I Southward gaze-- +Like the ocean there, +Ripening fields of grain +Wave and ripple fair. + +Softest velvet sod +Decks the meadow floor, +In the vineyards green +Swells the grape once more. + +Do I Northward turn-- +O'er the waste lands lone, +Soft as eider down +Are the snowflakes blown. + +And his azure waves +High the ocean lifts, +On his cold blue breast +Now an iceberg drifts. + +And as leaping flame +Burn the Northern lights, +On the darkness gleam +Through the silent nights. + +Even so art thou, +Russian realm, become,-- +Thou my native land, +Shield of Christendom! + +Far away hast thou, +Throughout lands untold, +In thy glory fair, +Russia, been enrolled! + +Art thou not in space +E'en o'er well supplied? +Where a spirit bold +Freely wanders wide! + +Hast thou not alway +Gold and grain rich stored? +For thy friend a feast? +For thy foe a sword? + +Guards and shields thee not +With a sacred might, +Holy altar forms, +Deeds of glory bright? + +To whom hast thou e'er +Bent an humble knee? +Or before whom bowed +Seeking charity? + +In the Kurgan deep, +Met in open fight, +Thou hast e'en subdued +The fierce Tartar's might. + +Fought to bloody death +The Lithuanian horde, +The defiant Pole +Scattered with a sword. + +And how long ago, +Black clouds, rising out +Of the distant West, +Compassed thee about? + +'Neath the lightning flash +Sank the woods away, +Trembled the earth's breast, +Piercéd with dismay. + +And the inky smoke +Ruinous did rise +From the village burnt +To the cloudy skies. + +Loudly to the fight +Then the Tsar did call-- +Russia swift replied, +Coming one and all. + +Women, children came-- +Men from age to youth, +Gave their evil guest +Bloody feast in truth! + +And in lonely fields +Under ice and snow, +To his endless sleep +Laid the victim low. + +Where the snowstorms wild +Raised o'er him a tomb, +While the North wind sang +Dirges in the gloom. + +Town and village too +Over all our land, +Now like ant hills swarm +With this Christian band. + +Now from distant shores +O'er the cruel sea, +Ship on ship draws near +Homage paying thee. + +Blooming are thy fields, +Soft thy forests sigh, +Hid in earth's dark breast +Golden treasures lie. + +And to East and West, +To the South and North-- +Flies thy louder fame +Through the wide world forth! + +Holy Russia, thou +Dost deserve to be +"Mother" called by all, +In our love to thee! + +For thy glory fair +We should face the foe, +And thy freedom guarding +Glad our lives bestow! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT + +To seven kopek the heir, + Nor house nor land have I-- +Live I--hey! I live then! + Die I--hey! I die! + +In many realms the Fool + Can sleep no wink for care, +While yet the spendthrift snores + When dawns the morning fair. + +Free as the wind he blows, + Door nor gate to balk him, +Riches, hey! Now give place! + Poverty goes walking! + +Before me bends the rye + When through the fields I stray +And glad the forest hears + My pipe and song alway. + +If one must bitter weep-- + No man will see his tears, +If sadly bowed his head-- + None save the partridge jeers. + +If weary one, or not, + What matters anything? +Let him toss back his locks + And playful laugh and sing! + +And if one die,--the grave + Will warm his hands and feet! +Dost to my song respond? + Nay? Then it is complete. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD + +The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould.... +O Life,--so o'erflowing with sorrows untold, +My life, so homeless and lonely and weary, +Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary-- +Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky, +And as a fire of the field wilt thou die! +Die then--no sad falling tear will recall thee, +Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee, +Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted-- +Only one more from humanity parted; +One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing-- +One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing! + +Hark! What a silvery music is ringing! +Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing! +See on ethereal azure waves swinging, +Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging! +Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears, +Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +GOSSIP + +Though blameless thy living + As Anchorite's fate, +Yet Gossip will find thee + Or early or late. + +Through keyhole he enters + And stands at thy side, +Doors of wood nor of stone + Against him provide. + +He pulls the alarm bell + At slightest excuse-- +And down to thy grave + Will pursue with abuse. + +Self defence nothing boots thee, + Thy flight he will worst-- +To earth he will tread thee, + O Gossip be cursed! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +IN A PEASANT HUT + +Sultry dampness--pine chips smoking, +Off-scourings a span length, +In the corners webs of spiders, +Smut on dish and bench. + +Sooty black the bare wall, crock stained, +Water--dry hard bread; +Groanings, coughings, children's whimper, +Wretched bitter need! + +And a beggar's death for years of +Harshest drudgery-- +Learn to put your trust in God here, +And to patient be. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +WINTER NIGHT IN THE VILLAGE + +O'er the church roof wanders + Mute and calm the moon, +Blue upon the snowdrifts + Sparkling silent down. + +By the small pond dreaming, + Stands the church a'gleam-- +With its gold cross twinkling + As a taper's beam. + +Peaceful in the village + Darkness reigns and sleep, +Every hut is standing + Snowed in window deep. + +Out upon the highway + Hushed and empty all, +Now the howling watch dogs + Even, silent fall. + +After their day's labor + Young and old are pressed +Weak and worn, on their hard + Narrow place of rest. + +In one cottage only + Shines a lamplight, where +A sick old hoary-head + Groans in soul-despair. + +Death is near,--and of her + Grandchildren thinks she, +Smitten sore the orphans + Harvest time will be. + +Ah the poor, poor children! + Now so young for strife, +All untried and helpless + In the woe of life! + +Among stranger people + Older they will grow-- +Evil hearts will lure them + Evil ways to go. + +With disgrace too early + They will make a bond, +Shamed and God forsaken + Sink unto the ground. + +Dear God, thyself take them, + Thy forsaken poor-- +Staff and light be to them + Thyself evermore! + +And the sacred lamplight + Calm and silent strays; +On the holy pictures + Fall its trembling rays; + +O'er the aged features, + O'er the dying form, +O'er the two small children + On the stove bench warm. + +Sudden, through the stillness + Rings a merry cry-- +And his jingling troika + Drives a reveller by! + +Dies in silent distance + Sleighbell clangor strong, +And the careless, merry, + Sorrow-troubling song. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE BIRCH TREE + +From bald and sun-parched earth it rises, + One lonely birch, high towering-- +Upon its withered crown wide spreading, + Green leafage never more will sing. + +Up to the rim of the horizon + Where veiling mists all soft enclose, +Runneth the blossoming of flowers, + The Steppe's green ocean waving flows. + +In green enchantment stands the Kurgan, + Where evening dampness doth enfold, +The night descends with sleep and coolness, + The morning sunbeams touch with gold. + +Yet loveless, helpless stands the birch tree-- + In heaven's grey, musing sad to view, +And from its branches fall like tear-drops + The gleaming pearls of morning dew. + +Scattered, alas! her tender leaflets, + In howling storms,--so far, so wide! +Ne'er will the birch, to greet the Springtide, + Be fresh adorned in leafy pride! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +NORTH AND SOUTH + +Knowest thou the land of fragrance ardent glowing? +Where night sublimely sparkles on the flowing +Of the sea? Murmuring in starlight gleam-- +Weaving about the heart a wonder dream? +Refulgent in the silvering moonbeams white, +In soft half darkness, gardens slumbering light; +Only the fountain's iridescent foam +Upon the grass falls splashing down-- +And images of Gods with lips of silence +Sunk in deep musing gaze on every side-- +While, eloquent of fallen majesty, +Ruins entwined with ivy tendrils be? +Soft pictured on the valley's verdant meadows +Dark cypress trees reflect their slender shadows; +Earth's bosom blooming in fecundity-- +And freedom here man's joyful destiny. + +Yet more than tropic's soft abundance thralling, +My stormy North-land wilderness is calling! +Her snowflake flocks, her gleaming midnight frosts, +The glory of grim forests on her coasts, +Green tinted Steppes with distant bluish rim-- +The trooping clouds in heaven's spaces dim. +Unto the heart how the familiar cries! +The village mean that in the valley lies, +The wealthy cities' towering majesty, +The empty snow-fields' endless boundary,-- +The changeful moods that all unbridled throng; +Spirit of Russia and of Russian song! +With joy now gushing forth,--with pain now ringing-- +Unto the hearer's heart resistless singing. + +Thou fairest picture! my breast with rapture sighs, +My spirits free, victorious arise! +A song breaks forth to Russia's praise and glory, +And tears of joy, the while I muse, are flowing. +And jubilant the kindling heart must cry-- +Hail Russia, Hail! Thy loyal son am I! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +HUNGER + +Hark! Who knocks with bony fingers + On the hut's small window latch? +Hark! Who pulls away the stubble + Rustling, from the roofing thatch? + +From the fields it is not Vintage, + Drunk and weary wavers home-- +'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy, + As a nightmare dread become. + +All subduing, all destroying, + In his ragged garment poor, +Drags he,--on his crutches limping-- + Noiseless reeling through the door. + +Like the usurer hard hearted, + For his last kopek in quest, +Coffer, cupboard both he opens, + Breaks the lock of case and chest. + +Lordly rules he, late and early-- + In the granary; when gone +Every kernel of provision, + The last cattle he will pawn. + +From the land unto the cellar, + Clean the peasant's hut he keeps, +With a coarse and clumsy besom + Every tiny crumb he sweeps. + +On the village highway also + Works and wins he over all, +From the threshing floor to stable-- + From the sheepfold to the stall. + +His approaching, sorrow follows-- + On his coming, follows need, +On his greeting, follows sickness, + On his hand-shake Death succeeds! + +So he seeks in all directions, + East and West and South and North-- +And in empty field embraces + Thankfully his friend the Frost! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +FADED THE FOOTSTEP OF SPRING FROM OUR GARDEN + +Faded the footstep of Spring from our garden, + Sighing the Autumn wind vanishing goes, +Behold now, how close to us dreams are approaching-- + Love, it is time for repose! + +List, how the leafage in raindrops all tearful + Trembles and wails for a sorry defeat,-- +All that was ours, that we once proudly boasted, + All, was a glittering cheat. + +Dark as a funeral pall hanging over, + Fluttering clouds in their mockery close; +Sighing within us is silenced our singing-- + Love, it is time for repose. + +Deceitful from heaven's fair emerald rainbow, + Soft borrowed glamour of moonbeams doth woo; +Since even you to my faith were disloyal, + Love, my false Springtime were you! + +Soon will the sunbeams last radiant shining + Trackless be hurled where the Autumn wind blows, +Slumber enmeshes my soul and the darkness-- + Love, it is time for repose! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +THE BEGGAR + +There stood a beggar asking alms + By the cathedral gate, +His face bore torture marks of life-- + Pale, tired, blind--like fate. + +Thin, tired, pale and blind he begged + A crust of bread alone, +And some one pausing, placed within + His outstretched hand--a stone. + +And even so I asked your love, + I brought my dreams, my life--the while +Unto my passion you replied + Only with your cold smile! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +WITH ROSES + +Darling, accept my bunch of perfumed roses;-- + Because in royal beauty and in freshness sweet +They dared to rival you,--I cut them down and bound + The criminals and brought them to your feet. + +_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_. + + + + +THE STARS + +With joy in your heart and a smile on your lips + You admired the soft Southern night, +And do you know when your beautiful eyes + Were remarked, all the stars at the sight +Were put out and turned faint in the skies? + +This morning they brought their complaint to the sun-- + "In ether a star quite unknown! +If to-night this same comet shall shine + Whose radiance extinguished our own, +We must all, our old splendor resign!" + +And sadly the sun made them answer,--"Alas! + Before her, I am pale at high noon;-- +See, to-day all is rainy and cold, + 'Tis the trace of defeat seen so soon, +'Tis the trace of eclipse you behold!" + + * * * * * + +O happy the being whose life from afar + Shall be lighted by such a lode star! + +_From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine_. + + + + +WHISPERS AND THE TIMID BREATHING + +Whispers and the timid breathing, + Nightingale's long trill, +Silver moonlight and the rocking + Of the dreaming rill; +Nightly light and nightly shadow, + Shadow's endless lace-- +Neath the moon's enchanted changes + The Beloved's face. +Blinking stars as flash of amber, + Snowy clouds on-rush, +Tears and happiness and kisses-- + And the dawn's red blush! + +FROM "FÊTE CHENCHINE." + +_Fête Chenchine, so-called, has no rival in impressionistic effects. The +above without a verb is a good instance of his peculiar caprice_. + + + + +THE TALES OF THE STARS + +The stars of beauty, the stars of purity, + Have whispered their wonderful tales to the flowers! +The satiny petals have smiled as they heard, + And trembled the emerald leaves 'mid their bowers. +But infatuate flowers deep drunken of dew + Repeated these tales to the light swaying breeze-- +Rebellious winds listening swift caught them up + And sang them o'er earth, o'er the mountains and seas! +Now, as the earth under Springtime's caresses: + With her verdant tissue is covered once more, +All my madly passionate soul overflows + With dreams of the stars and their radiant lore! +And throughout these days of my sorrow and toil, + Through these nights of my loneliness, darkness and rain-- +Stars wondrous and radiant, I give back to you, + Your ethereal fancies again! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +ONE DEAREST PAIR OF EYES I LOVE + +One dearest pair of eyes I love! + Entranced my heart beneath their spell-- +Clearer than clearest ray they are, + But where they are--I will not tell! + +Through silk of wondrous lashes soft, + Their burning beams are flashing bright, +Upon my knees, a slave I kneel-- + Before those miracles of light. + +The storm is growing in my soul, + Tempest of pain and happiness-- +I love one dearest pair of eyes, + But whose they are--I'll not confess! + +GIPSY SONG. + + + + +A GIPSY SONG + +Pile of embers in the darkness, + Sparks expire as they fly-- +Night conceals us from the passing, + On the bridge we'll say good-by! + +At the parting, shawl of crimson + Cross my shoulders thou shalt lace, +At an end the days swift passing, + Met within this shaded place. + +In the morning, with first splendour, + All my life compelled to rove-- +I shall leave with other gipsies + Seeking happiness and love. + +How does fate foretell my future? + Who, to-morrow by my side, +O'er my heart will loose with kisses + Knots by thy dear hand fast tied? + +Flash of embers in the darkness, + Sparks expire as they fly-- +Night conceals us from the passing, + On the bridge we'll kiss good-by! + +POLONSKY. + + + + +AT LAST + +No word,--not e'en a sigh, my darling! + Together now the silence keeping; +In truth as o'er some grave stone leaning + The silent willows low are weeping, +And drooping o'er it so are reading-- + I read in thy tired heart at last, +That days of happiness existed, + And that this happiness is past. + +PLESTCHEEFF. + + + + +BY AN OPEN WINDOW + +So sultry is the hour I throw the casement wide, + Fall on my knees beside it in the gloom, +And cowering before me lies the balmy night, + Wafted aloft the breath of lilac bloom. +The nightingale her plaint from a near thicket sobs, + I listen to the singer, share the woe-- +With a longing for my home within me waking, + The home I looked on last so long ago! +And the nightingales of home with their familiar song! + And lilacs in my childhood gardens fair! +How the languors of the night possess my being, + Restoring my lost youth on perfumed air! + +THE GRAND DUKE CONSTANTINE. + + + + +WITH THE GREATNESS OF GOD + +With the greatness of God all my heart is on fire! + Such a beauty to earth does He lend-- +He created eternity for our desire, + To our torment has given an end. + +NADSON. + + + + + +THE POET + +Ne'er have I sung in idle hours of dreaming, +With verse harmonious and sweet-voiced rhyme, +I have sung only when in tempest raging +My soul was shaken by a power sublime! +For each thought I have suffered and been troubled, +No dream creation painless from me torn, +The blessed lot of Poet not seldom seeming +A cross intolerable to be borne! +Oft have I sworn to evermore keep silence, +To mingle and be lost among the crowd, +But when the winds once more their strings are sweeping-- +Aeolian harps must ever cry aloud; +And in the Spring the flooding streams on-rushing +Must downward plunge into the vale below, +When from the rocky peaks' high towering summits +The sun's warm rays have melted off the snow. + +NADSON. + + + + +TO THE MUSE + +Take from thy brow the laurel--cast it forth! + May it in dust lie 'neath thy feet; +The blood-flecked thorn crown hurl away-- + As witness of thy pain alone 'tis meet! + +NADSON. + + + + +A FRAGMENT + +Hark! The storm petrel shrieks! + Reef the sail canvas fast! +See, the Spirit of Storm with wildest commotion +Has to heaven's arched vaulting his coronal pressed, +While his heels dam the flood gates of ocean! +Furious storm-cloud his undulent drapery, +Girded round with the lightning wide flashing; +O'er the sea's leaden billows from his threatening hand +The thunderbolts are sent crashing! + +NADSON. + + + + +IN MAY + +To you,--you beggars in the forests proud,-- +To pastures free, my hasting foot returns! +The May is come! It smiles and laughs aloud-- +For Love's desire, freedom's bliss, it yearns. +Erased the marks of city slavery, +Here where the sun gleams gold through azure hours-- +Here wrests the spirit from all bondage free, +The fields grown green and the syringa flowers! + +Storms only, brought my youthful morning red, +And night of soul and wilderness of pains-- +All in my breast is hushed and numb and dead, +The pulsing fever stopped within my veins; +Yet here, where Nature winds a wreath for me, +The arms stretch forth,--the weary glance devours-- +And the arrested soul exults and sings, +The fields grow green and the syringa flowers! + +NADSON. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF N.M.D. + +Slumber soft,--oh thou my heart's beloved! +Death alone can bring eternal rest, +And in death alone 'neath tearless lashes +Shall thine eyes forever close be pressed; +In thy grave, no more with fevered doubting +Shall thy golden head tormented be, +In thy grave alone, thou'lt never long for +All that life so cruel robbed from thee. + +Through the grass, white yet thy coffin shining-- +O'er thy grave the cross is looming white, +As in silent prayer unto the heavens +Mournful gleaming through the cold blue night. +Now with tears my eyes are overflowing, +Hotter tears I ne'er before have wept-- +All the bitter sorrows I have suffered +In one sobbing cry together swept. + +Spring across the fields will be returning +With her silver nightingales, ere long-- +Through the dusky nights of silence piercing +E'en thy grave with her inspiring song, +And the lindens whispering, will murmur-- +Breathless die away, and sighing cease, +But thou--slumber soft my heart's beloved, +Death alone can bring eternal peace! + +NADSON. + + + + +AT THE GRAVE OF N.M.D. + +Forsaken am I now anew, +Night's sombre wings o'er me descending, +As tearless, meditating, dumb-- +Above thy grave's low mound I'm bending. +Naught offers recompense for thee, +No hopes console or fears betray-- +For whom now live I in this world? +For whom on earth now shall I pray? + +NADSON. + + + + +IN DREAMS + +In my dreams I saw heavens bespangled, + With silvery stars all adorned, +And pale green sorrowing willows + Drooping low o'er the pale blue pond. +I saw in syringa embowered + A cottage, and thou my heart's Dove-- +And bowed was thy little curly head, + My beautiful sad pale Love! + +Thou wert weeping, the teardrops shining + Were flowing from thy yearning gaze, +For love the roses wept also, + For joy sobbed the nightingale. +And every tear found consoling-- + A greeting from near and from far, +The garden was lit by a glow worm, + Enraptured the heavens a star! + +NADSON. + + + + +THE OLD GREY HOUSE + +Thou hospitable old grey house,--A greeting unto thee! + With thy red ochre roofs,--vine trellised o'er; +The gardens fair laid forth in blooming luxury, +The fields in glinting beads of dew stretched endlessly, + Beneath the sun's fresh kiss a gilded floor! + +A silvery ribbon through the flowering green-- + The icy billows of the river foam, +Above her clay-white strand are verdant arbours seen, +Spun o'er with leafage, through the waking land between, + And where the azure river's currents roam. + +Prattling, the river lisps of love and of repose-- + And in the distance shimmers, faintly dies; +A flower, secret listening as its message flows, +A roguish kiss of gratitude in fragrance blows, + While beckoning stars smile from the silent skies. + +I greet thee, home and mother! Joys now charm anew + That I believed but once to me were given; +Thee I forsook,--and now my last expiring view +Turns back from fruitless conflict to thy vision true, + Love, no more mine, nor hope nor peace of heaven! + +Mother and home, I greet thee! O caress thy child + Whom weariness, regret, despair assail-- +With sighing of thy groves in the soft wind beguiled, +With sunbeams of thy Springtime smiling fair and mild, + And with the liquid song of nightingales! + +Let me once only weep in the assurance blest + That I am not girt round with human scorn, +Let me but sleep once more upon thy gentle breast, +Forgetting in my childish, deeply-dreaming rest + The loss and failure of my life forlorn! + +NADSON. + + + + +CALL HIM NOT DEAD + +Call him not dead,--he lives! + Ah you forget +Though the pyre lies in ruin the fires upward sweep, +The string of the harp is broken but her chords still weep, +The rose is cut but it is blooming yet! + +NADSON. + + + + + +BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES + + +ALEXANDER SERGJEWITSCH PUSHKIN was born at Moscow, May 26, 1799. His +first poetical influence came from his nurse who taught him Russian +tales, legends and proverbs, and to whom, with loving recognition, he +was grateful to the end of his life. His grandmother and this nurse +taught him to read and write. In his seventh year he began the study of +foreign languages; German, French,--which was as his mother tongue to +him,--and mathematics, which he hated. At nine the passion of reading +possessed him and he devoured his father's library, which included the +French erotics, Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopedists. His own +first poetical work was indeed written in French. In 1811 he was sent to +the school then just opened, at Tzarskoe Selo near Petersburg. Here, +however, he learned little, the students being more interested in +drinking bouts and platonic relations with barmaids and actresses; in +spite of which the art of poetry was worshiped and Pushkin with others +among his friends published a journal in manuscript that circulated +their own contributions. He was later graduated from the Alexandrovsky +Lyceum, the highest and most splendid civil school of that time, and +entered the department of Foreign Affairs. Although he retained his +entire sympathy with the poetic brotherhood, he now frequented the +salons of the titled aristocracy and gave himself up to the vortex of +luxurious society. Because of his political satires and too free +opposition to the government, he was sent away from Petersburg in 1820, +and attached to the Governor of the South Russian Colonies. Here he fell +ill and went to the Caucas for recovery. It was in the Crimea that he +learned to know and wonder over Byron. He remained three years in +Kischinew,--in the service chiefly of wine, women and cards. In 1823 he +went to Odessa as attaché of the General Governor Count Woronzow, whom +he pursued with biting epigram,--until in 1824 the poet of "Russlan and +Ludimilla" was removed from the service and banished to his mother's +estates by order of the Tsar Alexander I. + +These two years of unwilling retirement worked mightily upon the soul of +Pushkin so filled with storm and stress. He struck off the chains of +Byron and steeped himself in Shakespeare; writing at this period his +drama of Boris Godunow. Nicholas First amnestied the poet and recalled +him to Moscow, instituting himself censor of all future work; likewise +placing Pushkin under the all-powerful Chief of Police Count +Benkendorff, from whom Lermontoff later had also so much to suffer. In +1829 Pushkin went to the Caucas and with the Russian army to Erzum. In +1830 he inherited from his father the management of But Boldino, where +he finished "Onegin," and three other dramas. In 1831 he was married at +Moscow to Natalie Nikolajewa Gontsharowa, whose beauty had for three +years held him in her toils. In the same year he was appointed to the +foreign office again. In 1833 the poem was published that won him his +fatal commission. Pushkin fell, as did Lermontoff later, a victim of the +envy and hatred of high society. At this time many responsible positions +were held in Russia by Frenchmen who had fled the terrors of the +revolution. Such a French émigré was D'Anthes, who pursued the wife of +Pushkin with his compromising attentions, until at a ball the poet was +almost forced to challenge him. The pistol duel, that Count Benkendorff +with cunning foresight did nothing to prevent, took place June 27, 1837. +In two days the poet was free from his tormentors forever. He was buried +in the Swatjatorgorische cloister and statues have been erected to his +honor at Petersburg, Moscow and many other cities throughout Russia. His +service to Russian literature can only be compared with that of Dante +for Italy,--since there was practically no Russian poetry before Pushkin +and he may be said to have created the Russian language as it is spoken +to-day. + + +MICHAIL JURJEWITSCH LERMONTOFF was born October 14, 1814, at Moscow. +From his father he inherited the love of brilliant society, from his +mother the love of music and an unusually sensitive temperament. When he +was but two and a half years old his mother died and he became the idol +of his grandmother, by whom he was spoiled, until the wilfulness of +youth became the arrogance and domineering quality so distinguishing his +maturity. Being a delicate child, his grandmother took him at the age of +ten to the Caucas,--which he deeply loved ever after. In 1827 he was +placed in the Adelige Pension at Moscow, having been previously much +influenced by a German nurse who inspired him with a love of German +legend and poetry, and also by his tutor, an officer in the Napoleonic +guard, who had taught him French. Up to 1831 he was under the German +unfluence [Transcriber's note: sic] in literature, but then he came +under the influence of Byron, and from this time he was never free of +the impression of the poet so congenial to his own spirit and nature. In +1830 he was matriculated by the Moscow University as a student of moral +and political science. In 1832 he went to what is now the Nicolai +Military school in Petersburg, where he wrote his censurable and erotic +poems that were passed about by thousands and won an immense popularity +with the jeunesse doré of the time, but which were regarded as +discreditable by the more serious and thoughtful society. In November, +1832, he was appointed Second Lieutenant in the Life Guard Hussar +regiment, and the young poet now plunged into the vortex of society life +as Pushkin had before him. In 1836 appeared his "Song of the Tsar Ivan +Wassiljewitsch,"--a truly classical achievement in the record of +literature. In 1837 came the poem on the death of Pushkin, that stirred +the aristocratic world and caused his banishment to the Caucas by the +Emperor Nicholas I. In April of the year 1840 he was again banished to +the Caucas for his duel with the son of the historian de Barante, where +he distinguished himself by his valor in conflict with the Tscherkes. In +February of 1841 we find the poet again at Petersburg, where the second +edition of his masterpiece, "A Hero of Our Own Time," was just +appearing. Yet toward the end of April again he was obliged to leave,-- +this time through the influence and hatred of the Countess Benkendorff. +For the third time he went to the Caucas in exile. Here in Petigorsk he +was forced into close relation with one Major Nikolai Solomonowitsch +Martynow,--whom he did not spare from his well deserved scorn. Aroused +by the local society that pursued the poet with hatred and envy, +Martynow challenged him at a ball. The seconds, as also the entire city, +expected a harmless outcome only, especially as Lermontoff, as was known +to his adversary, had declared he should shoot in the air. He held his +hand high with the pistol stretched aloft; Martynow approached, aimed, +fired, and silently the poet fell dead. Thus his own lament for Pushkin +came to be worthily written for himself-- + + "The murderer contemptuous gazing + Did steadfastly his weapon aim--" etc., etc. + +At the foot of the Machook mountains, July 27, 1841, in the +twenty-seventh year of his age, the poet died. After a year the body was +claimed by his grandmother, who lived at this time in the Pensa +district, and his remains were removed to be fitly honored in the family +village of Tarchany. In connection with the tragedy, it is pitiful to +remember that his grandmother wept herself blind over the death of the +poet. + + +COUNT ALEXIS CONSTANTINOWITSCH TOLSTOY was born at Petersburg on the 6th +of September, 1817. At the age of six weeks he was taken away from the +city to Little-Russia, by his mother and maternal uncle, who was +distinguished in Russian literature under the pseudonym of Anton +Perowskij. By this uncle he was brought up, enjoying a singularly happy +and unclouded childhood. Being an only child he played much alone, +living in his dreams and imagination and early developing a love for +poetry. At the age of eight or nine years he was taken by his parents to +Petersburg where he was presented to the heir to the throne, and allowed +to play with his children. The good will shown him at that time he never +lost throughout his entire life. The year following he was taken to +Germany, and while in Weimar was permitted to visit Goethe, which made a +lasting impression upon him. Up to the age of seventeen when he took his +examinations for the University at Moscow, he lived both in Russia and +abroad. After the death of his uncle, who made him his heir, he became +attached, by the wish of his mother, to the Russian Mission at +Frankfort. Later he returned to enter the Second Division of the +Chancellery of His Majesty. At the time of the coronation of Alexander +Second at Moscow, he was appointed to become His Majesty's aide de camp; +an honor he declined, not caring for a military career. He was afterward +made Chief Master of the Royal Hunt, a position he held until the day of +his death. From the age of sixteen he had always written poetry, but not +until 1855 did he begin to publish his lyrics and epics in the journals. +His passion for poetry was extended toward all other forms of art. At +thirteen years of age he made his first journey through Italy,--to +Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples, and his soul grew large with +enthusiasm for every manifestation of beauty, so that upon his return to +Russia he was really homesick for Italy. He said himself that it was +solely due to his passion for hunting that his poems were written in the +major key,--while those of so many of his countrymen were written in the +minor. Count Tolstoy died on the 28th of September, 1875, at his estates +in the government of Tshernigow, where he lies buried. + +His most important works were a romance, a dramatic poem, Don Juan,--and +the dramatic trilogy, The Death of Ivan the Terrible, Tsar Fedor +Ivanowitsch and Tsar Boris. + + +APOLLON NIKOLAJEWITSCH MAIKOW was born June 4, 1821, at Moscow. His +father was a painter; his brothers had rendered important service to +Russian literature in history and criticism. As a boy he was instructed +in the literature of Russia by the afterward famous Gontscharow. At the +age of fifteen he began to write verse. His original intention was to +become a painter, but the weakness of his eyes and his increased +devotion to poetry decided him otherwise. + +He studied jurisprudence at the University of St. Petersburg for several +years, and his final collection of poems was published in 1842, which +was greeted with enthusiasm by the famous critic Belinsky. In the same +year, using the gold he received from the Emperor Nicholas I, he went +abroad. He spent nearly a year in Italy, heard lectures at the College +de France and the Sorbonne during his stay in Paris, and spent some time +in Prague. For a time he served in the Ministry of Finance and from 1852 +in the Foreign Censorship office at Petersburg; being President of that +office at the time of his death which occurred in March, 1897. + + +NIKOLAI ALEXAJEWITSCH NEKRASSOW was born in November, 1821, in a village +of a Polish province. His father married the daughter of a Polish +magnate against the opposition of her parents. The marriage turned out +unhappily. There were fourteen children and the poet always thought of +his mother as a saint and his father as a tyrant,--which appears in +several of his lyric poems. His childhood was spent in Greschenewo +where the family had inherited an estate. He was sent to the government +school or gymnasium, only until the fifth class. At sixteen he went to +Petersburg to pursue a military career by the will of his father. His +desire for knowledge drove him toward the University, but his father +refused his every request, and during his student years he went hungry +very often. He wrote vaudevilles for the Alexander theatre under an +assumed name, and not until 1840 published his first volume of verse. In +his fortieth year he brought out an anthology of Russian poets that was +sufficiently successful to give him a living. In his fiftieth year his +health seemed failing, and he went abroad to Italy, where the disaster +seemed happily averted. The journal with which he had been connected +being now suppressed, he became connected with another for two years. In +December, 1877, he died, widely mourned and called "the singer of +Russian folk song." + + +IVAN SSAWITSCH NIKITIN was born October 3, 1824, at Woronesh. Though his +life was poor in external circumstances, it was all the richer within. +His best biography is his own work, "From the Diary of a Seminarist." +His life opened under rather auspicious influences, for his father owned +a candle factory and was so prosperous that his business amounted yearly +to a hundred thousand roubles. A shoemaker taught the precocious boy to +read, and he was put to school at first in the local school, but this +was exchanged in 1841 for the Seminary. Both here and at home he was, +however, more cudgelled than educated, and his soul was threatened with +suffocation in scholastic confusion. Only one consolation was always +his; literature and poetry. While here the first great misfortune +befell. His father's business failed, the house was turned into an inn +and Ivan, instead of attending the University, as he had expected, was +obliged to sell candles, not only in his father's shop, but as that was +soon taken from him, even in the market place. After a few months his +mother died and his father sacrificed his last remaining possessions for +drink. He insulted and even attacked his son, bidding him leave his +house, and the poor boy was compelled to render the most menial service +to all. For ten long years this condition lasted, yet Ivan remained a +poet! + +In 1853 at the opening of the Crimean war, his patriotic hymn, "To +Russia," appeared in the Woronisher _Times_. This was received with +applause and a circle of intelligent men gathered about him who were +friendly and helpful in their disposition toward him. In 1856 Count +Alexis Tolstoy, the great poet, prepared a volume of his poems for +publication and the imperial family sent him costly gifts. His condition +became improved and by 1859 he had amassed a capital of two thousand +roubles, with which he opened a book-shop, hoping to enlighten the +darkness of his country. To this ideal he gave all his strength and his +money. In 1860 Nikitin went to Petersburg and Moscow to establish +connections with the leading publishing houses; from which no small +literary acquaintance arose. In the Spring of 1861 he suffered from a +throat trouble which developed into bronchial tuberculosis of which he +died on October 16, 1861. His trials with his father and those caused by +his father's extreme intemperance were considered to have greatly +hastened his lamented death. + + +CONSTANTINE MICHAILOWITSCH FOFANOW was born at Petersburg, May 30, 1862. +He is not a highly educated man, and is now living, after a series of +misfortunes, happily surmounted, at Gatschina. + + +SEMIJON JAKOLOWITSCH NADSON was born at Petersburg, December 26, 1862. +On his father's side he was of Hebrew extraction. His grandfather had +formerly embraced the orthodox faith, and his father, from whom he +inherited his musical talent, died in an asylum, in the extreme youth of +the poet. His mother, after contracting a second marriage, which ended +unhappily, died at the age of thirty-one, of consumption. The boy +learned to read and write at the age of four, from an old servant. At +nine he had read widely. In 1875 he suffered from religious doubts, and +even lost his faith in humanity, but his violin and Nature were still of +unfailing support even in this crisis. Before her death his mother had +placed him in the second Cadet Corps as a "pensionnaire." At first he +did well, but soon he began to neglect his school work for poetry. A +poem of his soon appeared in print, and that same year he fell in love +with a girl of sixteen who died with rapid consumption; the M.D.B. of +his poems. Smitten by this blow, he left the school and went to the +Pawlonische Military School. Here he contracted a lung trouble and was +sent to the Caucas. He remained there a year, but was always haunted by +thought of the military career before him, for which he was morally and +physically unfit. His dear dream of the University could not be +realized, and on his return he went again to the military school for two +years of camp life and maneuvres. In September, 1882, he was made second +lieutenant of a Caspian regiment and stationed at Kronstadt. Already the +young poet was making himself known through the journals, and in 1884 he +left off his hated military service. For a short time he was connected +with _Die Woche_, but already signs of tuberculosis had appeared and he +found that a journey abroad was indispensable. On the funds raised by +influential friends, and the prize awarded him by the Russian Literary +Society, he was enabled to go abroad this same year, accompanied by a +friend of his mother. He went to Wiesbaden, Nice, Mentonne, Berne, was +operated upon three times for the trouble in his foot, but to no avail. +His only desire became to return to his native land to die. In the +summer of 1885, he went back to Kiew, where for a time he seemed to +improve and was able to write some criticisms for the journals. When his +left lung gave out, he moved to Yalta in the Crimea. Here he received +the glad news that the Academy had given him the Pushkin award of five +hundred roubles. + +In November he bequeathed all he had written to the literary fund; whose +Nadson capital now amounts to more than two hundred thousand roubles +from the sale of his works. He died in January, 1889. His body was +brought to Petersburg and interred with public honors. His grave, which +is near other celebrated Russian writers, is adorned by a bust from the +hand of the famous sculptor Antokolsky. His poetry enjoys a popularity +beyond that of any one poet in Russian, and has been carried to the +eighteenth edition of one hundred and twenty thousand volumes each. + + +Sketches of the lives of the poets here represented by a single poem are +omitted as unnecessary to enjoyment of their work. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Russian Lyrics +by Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11985 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..92e19a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11985 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11985) diff --git a/old/11985-8.txt b/old/11985-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4798bfc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11985-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3835 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Russian Lyrics +by Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Russian Lyrics + +Author: Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +Release Date: April 10, 2004 [EBook #11985] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN LYRICS *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + +_Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_ + + THE KISS OF APOLLO + + GABRIELLE AND OTHER POEMS. + + THE SIN OF ANGELS: A Novel + + A COSSACK LOVER: A Novel + + THE CUCKOO'S NEST: A Novel + + A MODERN PROMETHEUS: A Novel of Italy. With a frontispiece + + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS. + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS + + +SONGS OF COSSACK, LOVER, +PATRIOT AND PEASANT + +_DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE_ + +BY +MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI + +_Author of "Within the Hedge," "The Cathedral," "A Modern Prometheus," +"The Cuckoo's Nest" etc_. + +NEW YORK +DUFFIELD AND COMPANY +1916 + +COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY +DUFFIELD AND COMPANY + + +_To +"A soul of passion, mirth and tears_." + + + +CONTENTS + +The Song of the Kazak................................ Pushkin +Cradle Song of a Cossack Mother................... Lermontoff +The Dagger........................................ Lermontoff +Don't Give Me the Wine!..........(From the Georgian of Prince + Tschawtschawadze) +The Delibash......................................... Pushkin +To the Don........................................... Pushkin +The Caucas........................................... Pushkin +The Cloister on Kasbek............................... Pushkin +Goblins of the Steppes............................... Pushkin +Under a Portrait of Jukowsky......................... Pushkin +The Vision........................................... Pushkin +I Loved Thee......................................... Pushkin +Serenade............................................. Pushkin +A Winter Evening..................................... Pushkin +The Last Flower...................................... Pushkin +Stanzas from "Onegin" + Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer................ Pushkin + Sometimes He read Aloud with Olga.................. Pushkin + Love Condescends to Every Altar.................... Pushkin + How Sad to Me is Thine Appearing................... Pushkin +The Memorial......................................... Pushkin +Tamara............................................ Lermontoff +The Gift of the Terek............................. Lermontoff +On Departure for the Caucas....................... Lermontoff +To the Clouds..................................... Lermontoff +To My Country..................................... Lermontoff +To Kasbek......................................... Lermontoff +The Angel......................................... Lermontoff +A Prayer.......................................... Lermontoff +The Sail.......................................... Lermontoff +I Am Not Byron.................................... Lermontoff +Like An Evil Spirit............................... Lermontoff +To A.C.S.......................................... Lermontoff +A Song............................................ Lermontoff +From Démon........................................ Lermontoff +The Prayer........................................ Lermontoff +The Palm Branch of Palestine...................... Lermontoff +The Dispute....................................... Lermontoff +Heaven and the Stars.............................. Lermontoff +On Napoleon's Death............................... Lermontoff +On the Death of Pushkin........................... Lermontoff +Russia, O My Russia, Hail!........................... Tolstoy +The Wolves........................................... Tolstoy +Autumn............................................... Tolstoy +Burnt Out Is Now My Misery........................... Tolstoy +In Hours of Ebbing Tide.............................. Tolstoy +Swans................................................. Maikow +To Sleep.............................................. Maikow +In Memory of My Daughter.............................. Maikow +Mother and Child...................................... Maikow +An Easter Greeting.................................... Maikow +At Easter............................................. Maikow +O Mountains of My Native Country!..................... Maikow +The Aeolian Harp...................................... Maikow +Ye Songs of Mine!.................................. Nekrassow +In War............................................. Nekrassow +A Song of Siberian Exiles.......................... Nekrassow +Freedom............................................ Nekrassow +A Farewell......................................... Nekrassow +The Love Letter.................................... Nekrassow +What the Sleepless Grandam Thinks.................. Nekrassow +To Russia............................................ Nikitin +The Song of the Spendthrift.......................... Nikitin +The Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould....... Nikitin +Gossip............................................... Nikitin +In a Peasant Hut..................................... Nikitin +Winter Night in the Village.......................... Nikitin +The Birch Tree....................................... Nikitin +North and South...................................... Nikitin +Hunger............................................... Fofanow +Faded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden......... Fofanow +The Beggar........................................... Fofanow +With Roses...................... (From the Georgian of Prince + Tschawtschawadze) +The Stars........... (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine) +Whispers and the Timid Breathing.......... ("Fete Chenchine") +The Tales of the Stars.............................. Fofanow +One Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love................. (Gipsy Song) +A Gipsy Song........................................ Polonsky +At Last.......................................... Plestcheeff +By An Open Window................. The Grand Duke Constantine +With the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!.... Nadson +The Poet.............................................. Nadson +To the Muse........................................... Nadson +A Fragment............................................ Nadson +In May................................................ Nadson +In Memory of N.M.D.................................... Nadson +At the Grave of N.M.D................................. Nadson +In Dreams............................................. Nadson +The Old Grey House.................................... Nadson +Call Him Not Dead,--He Lives!......................... Nadson + +Brief Biographical Notes: + Alexander Sergjewitsch Pushkin + Michail Jurjewitsch Lermontoff + Count Alexis Constantinowitsch Tolstoy + Apollon Nikolajewitsch Maikow + Nikolai Alexajewitsch Nekrassow + Ivan Ssawitsch Nikitin + Constantine Michailowitsch Fofanow + Semijon Jakolowitsch Nadson + + + + +To the Reader. + +The translations in this little collection make no pretension to being +more than an effort to share the delight found in them; from which most +of the world is debarred by the difficulty of the language in which they +are written. They have been chosen at random, each for some intrinsic +charm or because of its bearing upon some peculiar phase of the author. +Very few of the lyrics of Pushkin have been included, for the reason +that the great founder of Russian poetry has been more widely translated +than any other Russian poet, and is therefore available in several +languages. + +Remembering always that Heine declared translation was betrayal,--the +rhyme and smoothness have in every case been sacrificed when necessary +to preserve the exact rhythm, and as far as possible the vigour and +colour, as well as thought of the original; a task entirely beyond me +save for the co-operation of an accomplished Russian linguist who has +kindly assisted in the literal translation of every poem here presented. + +M.G.D.B. + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS AND +COSSACK SONGS + + + + +THE SONG OF THE KAZAK + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, + Kazak has never heart for rest, +Not on the field, nor in the wood, + Nor when in face of danger pressed +His steed the raging stream must breast! + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, +With him a mighty power brings, +To win the honour of his land + Kazak his life unheeding flings-- +Till fame of him eternal sings! + +Kazak brought all Siberia +At foot of Russia's throne to lie, +Kazak left glory in the Alps, + His name the Turk can terrify, +His flag he ever carries high! + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, +Kazak has never heart for rest, +Not on the field, nor in the wood, + Nor when in face of danger pressed +His steed the raging stream must breast! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half--Kazák_. + + + + +CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER + +Slumber sweet, my fairest baby, + Slumber calmly, sleep-- +Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber, + In thy cradle creep; +I will tell to thee a story, + Pure as dewdrop glow, +Close those two beloved eyelids-- + Lullaby, By-low! + +List! The Terek o'er its pebbles + Blusters through the vale, +On its shores the little Khirgez + Whets his murdrous blade; +Yet thy father grey in battle-- + Guards thee, child of woe, +Safely rest thee in thy cradle, + Lullaby, By-low! + +Grievous times will sure befall thee, + Danger, slaughterous fire-- +Thou shalt on a charger gallop, + Curbing at desire; +And a saddle girth all silken + Sadly I will sew, +Slumber now my wide-eyed darling, + Lullaby, By-low! + +When I see thee, my own Being, + As a Cossack true, +Must I only convoy give thee-- + "Mother dear, adieu!" +Nightly in the empty chamber + Blinding tears will flow, +Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one, + Lullaby, By-low! + +Thy return I'll wait lamenting + As the days go by, +Ardent for thee praying,--fearing + In the cards to spy. +I shall fancy thou wilt suffer, + As a stranger grow-- +Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest, + Lullaby, By-low! + +I will send a holy image + 'Gainst the foe with thee, +To it kneeling, dearest Being, + Pray with piety! +Think of me in bloody battle, + Dearest child of woe, +Slumber soft within thy cradle, + Lullaby, By-low! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE DAGGER + +I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence-- + I love the beauty of thy glitter cold, +A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war, + Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold. + +A lily hand, in parting's silent woe, + Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade; +Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewed + With sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade. + +Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul, + Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain-- +Like thine own steel within the fire's glow, + Flashed forth to me--then faded dull again. + +For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed, + In my life's night to guide me to my end; +Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever, + Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +DON'T GIVE ME THE WINE! + +Don't give me the wine! + I am drunk of my love, +With the force of my passion for you! +Don't give me the wine! + Or my tongue will betray +All the love no one dreamed hitherto; +For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast, +All the bitter hot tears that were mine, +My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest-- +I am drunk of my love,--don't give me the wine! + +You promise me roses now, if I will drink +But one drop of the wine;--if you please +Give only one breath from the rose of your lips! +And death's cup I will drain to the lees. +All passions are raging at once in my blood, +Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine. +You seem for my suffering only to wish-- +I am drunk of my love! + Don't give me the wine! + +_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_. + + + + +THE DELIBASH + +With the hostile camp in skirmish + Our men once were changing shot, +Pranced the Delibash his charger + 'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot. + +Trifle not with free-born Cossacks! + Nor too o'er foolhardy be! +Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for-- + On his pike he'll skewer thee! + +'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound, + Off thy head, at lightning speed +With his scimitar he'll sever + From thy trunk! He will indeed! + +What confusion! What a roaring! + Halt! thou devil's pack, have care! +On the pike is lanced the horseman-- + Headless stands the Cossack there! + +PUSHKIN. + +_Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur_. + + + + +TO THE DON + +Through the Steppes, see there he glances! + Silent flood glad hailed by me,-- +Thy far distant sons do proffer + Through me, greeting fond to thee! + +Every stream knows thee as brother, + Don, thou river boasted wide! +The Araxes and Euphrates + Send thee greeting as they glide. + +Fresh and strengthened for pursuing, + Scenting home within thy gleam-- +Drink again the Don'ish horses, + Flowing boundary, of thy stream! + +Faithful Don! There also greet thee + Thy true warriors bold and free-- +Let thy vineyard's foaming bubbles + In the glass be spilled to thee! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack_. + + + + +THE CAUCAS + +The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand where + Glaciers gleam, beside a precipice rock-ribbed; +An eagle that has soared from off some distant cliff, +Lawless as I, sweeps through the radiant air! +Here I see streams at their sources up-welling, +The grim avalanches unrolling and swelling! + +The soft cloudy convoys are stretched forth below, +Tattered by thronging mad torrents descending; +Beneath them the naked rocks downward are bending, +Still deeper, the wild shrubs and sparse herbage grow; +But yonder the forests stand verdant in flora +And birds are a'twitter in choiring chorus. + +Yonder, cliff-nested-are dwellings of mortals, +There pasture the lambs in sweet blossoming meadows-- +There couch the herds in the cool deepening shadows-- +There roar the Aragua's blue sparkling waters, +And lurketh the bandit safe hid in lone caverns, +Where Terek, wild sporting, is cutting the azure! + +It leaps and it howls like some ravening beast +At first sight of feeding, through grating of iron-- +It roars on the shore with a furious purring, +It licks on the pebbles with eagerest greed. +Vain struggle and rancor and hatred, alas! +'Tis enchained and subdued by the unheeding mass. + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE CLOISTER ON KASBEK + +KASBEK, thy regal canopy + High o'er all peaks revealed I see +By an eternal icy glare. +Hanging in cloudless glory ever-- +Like to an ark thy cloister there; +This world disturbing thy peace never, +Blest realm of joy remote in air! +Ah could I at thy mercy's threshold, +From durance cursed set myself free, +And in thine own etherial cloisters +Near thy Creator ever be! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +GOBLINS OP THE STEPPES + +Stormy clouds delirious straying, +Showers of whirling snowflakes white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Further speeds the sledge, and further, +Loud the sleighbell's melody, +Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming, +'Mid these snow fields now to be! + +Hasten! "That is useless, Master, +Heavier for my team their load, +And my eyes with snow o'er plastered +Can no longer see the road! +Lost all trace of our direction, +Sir, what now? The goblins draw +Us already round in circles, +Pull the sledge with evil claw! + +See! One hops with frantic gesture, +In my face to grin and hiss, +See! It goads the frenzied horses +Onward to the black abyss! +In the darkness, like a paling +One stands forth,--and now I see +Him like walking-fire sparkling-- +Then the blackness,--woe is me!" + +Stormy clouds delirious straying, +Showers of snowflakes whirling white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Sudden halt the weary horses, +Silent too the sleighbells whirr-- +Look! What crouches on the ground there? +"Wolf,--or shrub,--I know not, Sir." + +How the wind's brood rage and whimper! +Scenting, blow the triple team; +See! One hops here! Forward Driver! +How his eyes with evil gleam! +Scarce controllable the horses, +How the harness bells resound! +Look! With what a sneering grimace +Now the spirit band surround! + +In an endless long procession, +Formless, countless of their kind +Circle us in flying coveys +Like the leaves in Autumn wind. +Now in ghastly silence deathly, +Now with shrilling elfin cry-- +Is it some mad dance of bridal, +Or a death march passing by? + +Stormy clouds delirious straying +Showers of snowflakes whirling white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Cloudward course the evil spirits +In unceasing phantom bands, +And their moaning and bewailing +Grip my heart with icy hands! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY + +The charm and sweetness of his magic verse + Will mock the envious years for centuries! +Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns, + The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees, +And careless joy to wistful musing turns. + +PUSHKIN. + +_Jukowsky was a Russian poet_. + + + + +THE VISION + +I remember a marvellous instant, +Unto me bending down from above, +Thy radiant vision appearing +As an angel of beauty and love. +'Mid the torments of desperate sadness, +In the torture of bondage and sighs, +To me rang thy voice so beloved-- +And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes. +But the years rolled along--and life's tempests +My illusions, my youth overcame, +I forgot that sweet voice full of music-- +And thy glance like a heavenly flame. +In the covert and grief of my exile, +The days stretched unchanged in their flight, +Bereft inspiration or power, +Bereft both of love and of light. +To my soul now approaches awakening, +To me thou art come from above, +As a radiant and wonderful vision-- +As an angel of beauty and love. +As before my heart throbs with emotion, +Life looks to me worthy and bright, +And I feel inspiration and power-- +And again love and tears and the light! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +I LOVED THEE + +I loved thee; and perchance until this moment +Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! +Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal, +Nothing shall rouse again the old desire! + +I loved thee with a silent desperation-- +Now timid, now with jealousy brought low, +I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion-- +Ah may God grant another love thee so! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +A SERENADE + +I watch Inesilla + Thy window beneath, +Deep slumbers the villa + In night's dusky sheath. + +Enamoured I linger, + Close mantled, for thee-- +With sword and with guitar, + O look once on me! + +Art sleeping? Wilt wake thee + Guitar tones so light? +The argus-eyed greybeard + My swift sword shall smite. + +The ladder of ropes + Throw me fearlessly now! +Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet, + Been false to thy vow? + +I watch Inesilla + Thy window beneath, +Deep slumbers the villa + In night's dusky sheath! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +A WINTER EVENING + +Sable clouds by tempest driven, +Snowflakes whirling in the gales, +Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, +Hark--now like a child it wails! +Creeping through the rustling straw thatch, +Rattling on the mortared walls, +Like some weary wanderer knocking-- +On the lowly pane it falls. + +Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen, +Drear and lonely our retreat, +Speak a word and break the silence, +Dearest little Mother, sweet! +Has the moaning of the tempest +Closed thine eyelids wearily? +Has the spinning wheel's soft whirring +Hummed a cradle song to thee? + +Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, +Thou true-souled companion dear-- +Let us drink! Away with sadness! +Wine will fill our hearts with cheer. +Sing the song how free and careless +Birds live in a distant land-- +Sing the song of maids at morning +Meeting by the brook's clear strand! + +Sable clouds by tempest driven, +Snowflakes whirling in the gales, +Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, +Hark--now like a child it wails! +Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, +Thou true-souled companion dear, +Let us drink! Away with sadness! +Wine will fill our hearts with cheer! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE LAST FLOWER + +Rich the first flower's graces be, +But dearer far the last to me; +My spirit feels renewal sweet, +Of all my dreams hope or desire-- +The hours of parting oft inspire +More than the moments when we meet! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE COMING OF THE WINTER + +_Stanzas from "Onegin"_ + +Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer, +Than Southern Winter scarce more bland-- +Is undeniably withdrawing +On fleeting footsteps from the land. +Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens, +The light of sunbeams rarer grown-- +Already every day is shorter, +While with a smitten hollow tone +The forest drops its shadow leafage; +Upon the fields the mists lie white, +In lusty caravans the wild geese +Now to the milder South take flight; +Seasons of tedium draw near, +Before the door November drear! + +From shivering mist ascends the morning, +The bustle, of the fields declines, +The wolf walks now upon the highway, +In wolfish hunger howls and whines; +The traveller's pony scents him, snorting-- +The heedful wanderer breathless takes +His way in haste beyond the mountains! +And though no longer when day breaks +Forth from their stalls the herd begins +To drive the kine,--his noon-day horn recalls. +The peasant maiden sings and spins, +Before her crackling, flaming bright +The pine chips,--friend of Winter night. + +And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles +And spreads its silver o'er the fields, +Alas! the golden days are vanished! +Reluctant Nature mournful yields. +The stream with ice all frozen over +Gleams as some fashionable parquét, +And thronging hordes of boyish skaters +Sweep forward on its crystal way. +On her red claws despondent swimming, +The plump goose parts the water cold, +Then on the ice with caution stalking +She slips and tumbles,--ah behold! +Now the first snowflake idling down +Stars the depressing landscape brown. + +At such a season in the country, +What can a man's amusements be? +Walk? And but more of empty highway +And of deserted village see? +Or let him through the far Steppes gallop, +His horse can scarcely stand at all-- +His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold, +The rider dreading lest he fall! +So then remain within thy paling, +Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott, +Compare thy varying editions, +Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not! +As the long evenings drag away +So doth the Winter too delay. + +PUSHKIN. + +_[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of +Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw +were demanded_.] + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +Sometimes he read aloud with Olga +A latter day romance discreet, +Whose author truly painted nature, +With cunning plot, insight complete; +Oft he passed over a few pages, +Too bald or tasteless in their art-- +And coloring, began on further, +Not to disturb the maiden heart. +Again, they sat for hours together, +With but a chess board to divide; +She with her arms propped on the table, +Deep pondering, puzzled to decide-- +Till Lenski from his inward storm +Captured her castle with his pawn! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +Love condescends to every altar, +Ah when in hearts of youth it springs, +Its coming brings such glad refreshment +As May rain o'er the pasture flings! +Lifted from passion's melancholy +The life breaks forth in fairer flower, +The soul receives a new enrichment-- +Fruition sweet and full of power. +But when on later altars arid +It downward sweeps, about us flows-- +Love leaves behind such deathly traces +As Autumn tempests where it blows +To strip the woods with ruthless hand, +And turn to soggy waste the land! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +How sad to me is thine appearing, +O Springtime, hour of love's unrest! +Within the soul what nameless languors! +What passions hid within the breast! +With what a heavy, heavy spirit +From the earth's rustic lap I feel +Again the joy of Springtide odors-- +That once could make my spirit reel! +No more for me such pleasures thrilling, +All that rejoices, that has life, +All that exults,--brings but despondence +To one past passion as past strife, +All is but prose to such as he, +Wearied unto satiety. + +Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed +That which in Autumn drooped and pined, +Now radiant in verdure springing, +Since it must of our loss remind; +As with a tortured soul we realize +In Nature's glad awakening, +That we shall never find renewal, +Who evermore are withering. +Perchance there haunts us in remembrance, +Our own most dear and lyric dream, +Another long forgotten Springtime-- +And trembling neath this pang supreme, +The heart faints for a distant country +And for a night beside the sea! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE MEMORIAL + +Beyond compare the monument I have erected, +And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,-- +Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar + The Emperor Alexander hath! + +I shall not vanish wholly,--No! but young forever +My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring, +And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance + While yet one Singer lives to sing. + +My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia, +Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide, +The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me-- + The Tungoose in his reindeer hide. + +Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished, +Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed, +In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom, + And never for their pleasures blamed. + +O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever! +Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain-- +Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation, + And argument with Fools disdain! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The Alexander column, standing before the Winter Palace at St. +Petersburg, is a monolith eighty feet high; with the pedestal measuring +one hundred and fifty feet_. + + + + +TAMARA + +Where waves of the Terek are waltzing + In Dariel's wickedest pass, +There rises from bleakest of storm crags + An ancient grey towering mass. + +In this tower by mad winds assaulted, + Sat ever Tamara, the Queen-- +A heavenly angel of beauty, + With a spirit of hell's own demesne. + +Through the mist of the night her gold fires + Gleamed down through the valley below, +A welcome they threw to the pilgrim, + In their streaming and beckoning glow. + +How clear rang the voice of Tamara! + How amorous did it invite! +The heart of the stranger enticing, + Seducing with magic delight! + +The warrior was snared by her singing, + Nor noble, nor herd could withstand-- +Then noiseless her portal was opened + By eunuchs of shadowy hand. + +With pearls rare adorned and strange jewels, + Reposed on a billowy nest, +A prey to voluptuous longing, + Tamara awaited her guest. + +With passioned and thrilling embracement, + With straining of breast unto breast, +With sighing and trembling and transport-- + In lust's unrestrained, giddy zest-- + +So revelled 'mid desolate ruins, + Of Lovers,--past counting at least! +In their bridal night's wild distraction, + And in truth at their own death feast. + +For when from the peaks of the mountains + The sun tore the night's veiling soft, +There reigned anew only the silence + On turret and casement aloft. + +And only the Terek bewailing + With fury broke in on the hush, +As dashing her billows on billows + Her writhing floods onward did rush. + +A youth's form her currents are bearing, + Ah vainly they murmur and swell! +A woman, a pale and a fair one-- + Cries down from her tower "Farewell!" + +Her voice has the sound of faint weeping, + So amorous, tender and sweet-- +As if she in love's holy rapture + Did promise of meeting repeat! + +LERMONTOFF. + +[_Tamara is the Russian Lorelei. The ruins of her castle are still shown +in the pass of Darjal on the famous Georgian Road_.] + + + + +THE GIFT OF THE TEREK + +Through the rocks in wildest courses + Seethes the Terek grim of mood, +Tempest howling its bewailing, + Pearled with foam its tearful flood. + +At the mountain's feet soft streaming, + Gentler grown its murmurs be, +And with greeting full of fawning + Speaks to the Caspian Sea: + +"Hospitable part thy billows, + Give me room, oh Ocean grave! +From a distance drawing thither-- + Scarce my weary currents wave. + +Born upon the edge of Kasbek, + By the breast of clouds renewed, +Hatred have I sworn to mankind, + Who with us, the free, make feud. + +See, by rage of my own fury + Lies despoiled my Darjal home, +And as playthings for thy children, + Pebbles bearing now I come." + +Yet upon her strands a'dreaming, + Mute the grey Sea did remain, +And the Terek, silver foaming, + Spoke caressingly again. + +"Grey Sea I would serve thee only, + Have a present borne to-day-- +See, 'tis a young Carabineer + Who has fallen in the fray. + +How his coat of mail is gleaming + Silver on the billows' span! +Golden on his trappings shining + Blessing of the Alcoran! + +Menacing the one who slew him + Scowls the brow's relentless feud, +By his noble life blood crimsoned + O'er his lips his hair is glued. + +Through the half-closed eyelids glancing + Still the lust of quarrel mocks, +From his head deep underneath him + Flow the matted raven locks." + +Motionless upon her beaches + Did the grey Sea still remain, +And the Terek foaming yellow + In displeasure spoke again. + +"So then, take him as a present, + As I nothing fairer know +On this round earth,--for thee only + This rare prize I've guarded so! + +'Tis a mountain Cossack's body + Wafted 'mid my billows' dance, +See his hair,--no silk is softer-- + See his shoulder's gold expanse! + +See how o'er his red lips speechless + Now the seated eyes find rest; +Trickling yet the purple life blood + From the small wound on his breast. + +For a young and holy maiden, + Weeps lamenting, every heart! +One sole Cossack in the village, + In this mourning takes no part. + +From the confines of his country + Rode he forth with boding grey, +'Neath the dagger of the Tscherkes + He has breathed his soul away." + +And the Terek paused; behold now + In the gleaming foam flood drowned, +Silvered in the spraying billows + Dips a head with rushes crowned. + +And the hoary one's lips whisper + Haughty words of youthful fire, +And the eyes lit with love lustre + Flame with passionate desire. + +Foaming, rushing on swift longing, + Seethed he up in youthful zest-- +And the Terek flood was wedded + With him in embraces blest. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON DEPARTURE FOR THE CAUCAS + +Farewell my hateful Russian country! + People of lord and serf you are-- +Farewell, salute, bent knee and hand-kiss, + Three-masters, uniform and star! + +Soon will the Caucas now conceal me, + There I shall not discovered be +By eyes and ears of paid, false sergeants-- + Who all do hear and all do see! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO THE CLOUDS + +Clouds--ye eternal wanderers in hunting grounds of air, +High o'er the verdant Steppes, wide through the blue of heaven-- +Coursing fraternal,--say, must ye exiled as I +From the beloved North to the far South be driven? + +O tell me, were ye outlawed thus by Fate's behest? +Drives ye forth open hate, or secret grudge flee ye? +Follows ye unappeased an evil-doer's curse? +Are ye pursued by poisonous words of calumny? + +Ah no! Only from the unfruitful earth ye fly; +Free are your sufferings, your blessedness is free, +Ye know not wretchedness that holds us here in chains, +Know not the joy of home or exile's misery! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO MY COUNTRY + +With love of my own race I cling unto my country, +Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry; +The shame alone of all her blood bought glory, +Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride, +And the ancestral faith's traditions dark, +With woe have penetrated all my heart. + +And yet I love it! Why, I cannot say; +The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding, +In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing-- +The flood's high water on all sides in May. +By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness, +Through the lone wilderness and village desolate, +How hospitable shines the sole beam sparkling +To me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great, +The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled high +The wagons silent standing take their nightly rest, +On distant hills the silver birches I descry, +Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest. +Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant, +I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant, +The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again, +The window panels carved, of varied stain. + +Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested, +Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd, +Watching the villager,--young, happy, festive-- +And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO KASBEK + +With wingéd footsteps now I hasten +Unto the far cold North away, +Kasbek,--thou watchman of the East, +To thee, my farewell greetings say! + +Since all eternity, a turban +Snow white, thy glorious brow has veiled, +The peace sublime about thy glacier +The strife of man has ne'er assailed. + +Accept my humble supplication, +Hear thy submissive faithful son, +To starry heights lift his entreaty +To Allah's everlasting throne. + +I do implore--spice breathing coolness +Through sultry sun-glow in the vale, +A stone for rest unto the pilgrim +In whirling dust of desert gale. + +Turn, I implore, the storm's hot hatred, +The deadly thunderous lightning's course-- +In Dariel's wild pass protect me +And my distracted, trembling horse. + +Yet one prayer more my heart audacious, +Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress, +What if my native land forget me +In my sad exile's loneliness? + +Will, greeting me by name familiar, +My friend then open wide his arms? +Will e'en my brothers recognise me, +So changed by many griefs and harms? + +Perchance my foot will fall profaning +Dust of those loved in youth's far day, +The pure and noble, deeply trusted-- +Withered as Autumn leaves in May. + +O Kasbek, then with earth o'erwhelm me! +Snow o'er thy weary wanderer back, +And blow away my dust and scatter +Along thy rock-ridged clefts lone track! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE ANGEL + +Soft singing at midnight through heaven's high blue + A beautiful angel once flew; +The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng + Attended his wonderful song! + +He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coasts + Where live and exult the pure ghosts, +Their songs glad extolling Almighty's grace + Repeated from race unto race. + +In his arms he was bearing a young soul below, + To leave in this world of our woe, +The strains of his singing within her soul beat-- + A wordless song, living and sweet! + +Long languished her soul in its earthly abode, + With a heavenly longing o'erflowed, +For ne'er were those holy, pure strains of her birth, + Effaced by the songs of the earth. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +A PRAYER + +Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling, +Image miraculous and merciful--of thee +Not for my soul's health nor battles waged, beseeching, +Nor yet with thanks or penitence o'erwhelming me! + +Not for myself,--my heart with guilt o'erflowing-- +Who in my home land e'er a stranger has remained, +No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing, +That thou protect her innocence unstained! + +Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her! +Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side, +A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil, +A spirit where together peace and hope abide. + +Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending, +Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night-- +From out thy highest heaven, thy fairest angel sending +The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE SAIL + +A single sail is bleaching brightly + Upon the waves caressing bland, +What seeks it in a stranger country? + Why did it leave its native strand? +When winds pipe high, load roar the billows + And with a crashing bends the mast, +It does not shun its luckless fortune, + Nor haste to port before the blast. +To-day the sea is clear as azure, + The sun shines gaily, faint the wind-- +But it revolting, looks for tempest, + And dreams in storms its peace to find! + +LERMONTOFF. + +_Lermontoff, being reproached by the critics of his time for imitation +of Byron in this poem, defended himself by the following, "I am not +Byron!"_ + + + + +I AM NOT BYRON + +I am not Byron--yet I am +One fore-elected, yet one more +Unknown, world-hunted wanderer, +A Russian in my mood and mind. + +Scant from my seed the corn was ripe, +My mouth spoke young, was early hushed; +In depths of my own soul, the wreck +Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk. + +Who shall the counsels of the sea, +Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall +Read clear my spirit and my soul? +Unless it be a Poet--no man! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +LIKE AN EVIL SPIRIT + +Like an evil spirit hast thou + Shocked my heart from out its rest, +If thou'lt take it quite away now-- + Thou wilt win my healing blest! + +My heart thy temple evermore! + Thy face,--the altar's Godhead sign! +Not heaven's grace,--thy smiles, restore, + Grant absolution, joy divine! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO A.C.S. + +Afar--I fain, so much would tell thee! +List to thee o'er and o'er when near; +Yet passioned glances thou dost silence-- +My words bind to my lips in fear. +How, by mere homely speaking, can I +E'en hope to captivate thine ears? +I swear it would be food for laughter-- +If it were not more fit for tears! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +A SONG + +Dry leaf trembling on the branches + Before the blast, +Poor heart quaking in the bosom + For woe thou hast; +Ah what matter if the wind then, + Withered leaf from blooming linden +Should scatter wide? + Would for this the twig or branches + Have wailing sighed? +And should the lad his fate upbraid, + Although he ignominious fade-- +And in an alien country die? + Will for him the beauteous maid + Complaining cry? + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +FROM "DÉMON" + +Sailless and without a rudder, + On the ocean of the air-- +Float the choirs of stars harmonious, + 'Mid the mists eternal there; +Fleecy flocks of clouds elusive + Drift across immensity, +Leaving ne'er a track behind them, + Following their destiny. +Hour of parting, hour of meeting + They know not,--nor grief, nor rest-- +Theirs no longing for the future, + Theirs no sorrow for the past. +By thy day of anguish broken, + Think of them and calm thy woe-- +Be indifferent as they are + To the pangs of earth below! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE PRAYER + +When faints the heart for sorrow, + In life's hard, darkened hour, +My spirit breathes a wondrous prayer + Full of love's inward power. + +There is a might inspiring + Each consecrated word, +That speaks the inconceivable + And holy will of God. + +The heavy load slips from my heart-- + Oppressing doubt takes flight, +The soul believes, the tears break forth-- + And all is light, so light! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE PALM BRANCH OF PALESTINE + +Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me, + In that far distant home-land fair, +Wast rooted in the mountain gravel + Or sprung from some vale garden rare? + +Once o'er the Jordan's silver billows + Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun? +Have the grim gales 'neath starry heavens + Swept over thee from Lebanon? + +And was a trembling prayer soft whispered, + A father's song sung over thee-- +When from the parent stem dis-severed + By some poor aborigine? + +And is the palm tree ever standing, + Amid the fierce glare beating down, +The pilgrim in the desert luring + To shelter 'neath her shadow crown? + +Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiver +In unappeaséd parting pain, +The branch conceals a homesick longing + For desert wilderness again? + +Was it a pilgrim who first brought thee + To the cold North, with pious hand? +Who mused upon his home in sadness, + And dost thou bear his tear's hot brand? + +Was it Jehovah's favored warrior, + His gleaming head transfigured bright, +For God and man true-sworn, devoted + Unto the victory of light? + +Before the wonder-working image + Thou stand'st as heaven's defence divine, +O branch from out that holy country, + The sanctuary's shield and sign! + +It darkens, golden lamp light splendors + Enveil the cross, the sacred shrine-- +The peace of God is wafted o'er us + From thee, oh branch of Palestine! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE DISPUTE + +Once 'mid group of native mountains + Hot dispute arose, +Elbrus, angry, did with Kasbek + Argument propose. +"Now beware!" the hoary Elbrus, + Warning did exclaim-- +"To enslave thee and enthrall thee + Is man's evil aim! +Smoking huts he will be building + On thy mountain side, +Loudly through thy clefts resounding + Ring his hatchet wide! +The swift swinging iron shovel + Breast of stone will part, +Of thy bronze and stone will rob thee-- + Pierce thee to the heart. +Caravans, e'en now, are passing + Through thy rocks afar, +Where before the fogs were swimming-- + And the Eagle Tsar. +Ah, mankind is bold and fearless! + Dreads no lifted hand, +Guard thee! populous and mighty + Is the morning land!" +"Threatens me the East?" then queried + Kasbek with disdain, +"There eight centuries already + Sleeping, man has lain. +See, in shadow the Grusine + Gloats in lustful greed, +On his many coloured raiment + Glints the winey bead! +Drugged with fumes of his nargileh, + Dreams the Mussulman-- +By the fountains on his divan + Slumbers Teheran. +See! Jerusalem is lying + At his feet o'erthrown-- +Deathly dumb and lifeless staring + As an earthly tomb. +And beyond the Nile is washing + O'er the burning steps +Of the Kingly mausoleums, + Yellow, shadowless. +In his tent, the hunt forgotten-- + Now the Bedouin lies, +Sings the old ancestral legends, + Scans the starry skies. +See! far as the eye can venture, + All sleeps as before-- +No, the threat of dreaming Orient + Frights me nevermore!" +"Laugh thou not too early, Kasbek," + Elbrus did persist-- +"Look! What vast mass is it turning + Northward, through the mist?" +Secretly the heart of Kasbek + Faltered,--as amazed, +Silent and with dark foreboding + To the North he gazed: +Full of woe stared in the distance; + What a thronging swarm! +Hark! there rings the clash of weapons! + Battle-cry alarm! +From the Don unto the Ural + What a human sea! +Regiments that wave and glitter + Past all counting be! +Feathers white like sedge of ocean, + Waving in a gust-- +Many coloured Uhlans storming + Through the blowing dust. +The imperial battalions + Densely packed proceed, +Trumpets flaring, banners flying + In the victor's lead. +Batteries with brasses rattling + Conquering advance, +With their blood-red splendor flashing + Cannon matches glance. +And a battle-proved commander + Leads the army there-- +From whose eyes the lightning flashes, + 'Neath his snowy hair. +Swells the host until as Griesbach's + Billows roaring loud, +From the Eastward nears the army + As a thunder cloud. +Kasbek peered with sinister boding + Through the clouds,--would fain +Count his enemies approaching-- + Found it was in vain: +Threw one glance unto the mountains-- + Anguished, overcome, +O'er his brow drew close the vapours, + Was forever dumb. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +HEAVEN AND THE STARS + +Brilliant heavens of evening, + Distant stars clearly shining, + Bright as the rapture of childhood, +O why dare I send you nevermore greeting-- +Stars, who are shining as clear as my joy? + What is thy sorrow? + Mortals make question. + This is my sorrow; +The heavens and the stars are--heaven and stars ever, +I am alas! but a perishing man! + Forever mortal + Envies his neighbor; + I envy rather +Ye in your freedom, ye stars ever radiant, +And only would be in your places! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON NAPOLEON'S DEATH + +Cold hears thy soul the praise or cursing of posterity. +Quit of the human race, thou man of destiny! +They only could o'erthrow, who thee did elevate-- +Forever thus remains thy greatness great! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF PUSHKIN + +He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour, +A sacrifice to slander's lust; +The haughty Poet's head, the noblest, +Bowed on his wounded breast in dust. +No longer could his free soul suffer +The vulgar world's low infamy; +He rose against the world's opinion, +And as a hero, lone fell he. +He fell! To what avail the sobbing-- +The useless choir of tears and praise? +Wretched the stammering excuses! +The Fates have spoke,--no power allays! +Have ye not at all times together +His sacred genius baited sore, +The silent fury fanned to flaming, +Delighted in your work before? +O be triumphant! Earthly torment +The Poet soul did fully bear, +Extinguished are the lights inspired, +The laurel crown lies leafless there! +The murderer contemptuous gazing +Did stedfastly his weapon aim, +No swifter beat his heart, Assassin! +Nor shook his lifted hand for shame. +No wonder; from a distance came he +As an adventurer unknown, +For worthy title, star of order-- +Stood but his mad desire alone. +Sneering and self-complacent mocked he +The rights and customs of our land, +He could not understand our glory, +Against which he has raised his hand. + +"Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung, +The Singer even as the song he sung; +Who of a hot, heroic mood, +In death disgraceful shed his blood!"[1] + +Why did he leave his home life tranquil, +To seek the envious market place, +Where each free flame is suffocated, +Expose him to the assassin base? +The human breed, who had known better +Since earliest years of youth, than he-- +Why did he trust the false pretending +Of malice and hypocrisy? +Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him, +Gave him a martyr's crown instead, +And now the cruel thorns have pierced him +E'en to the blood of his proud head! +His last days were for him envenomed-- +Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved, +He died revenge a'thirst, accusing +That every hope his heart deceived! + +Mute evermore the magic echoes, +That ne'er shall wonders more reveal, +The Poet's home is dark and narrow-- +Upon the Singer's lips a seal. + +But ye, sons insolent and shameless-- +Defamers, faithless fathers, ye! +Who trod the pure soul of another +Beneath your feet, who zealously +Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling +For fame and freedom, hatred steeled! +Well may you sneer at truth and justice, +The law provides you screen and shield, +Only a higher law shall sentence! +A mighty Judge beyond assail +Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers, +The Highest Judge who does not fail! +So then calumniate with brazen courage, +Your hatred's fury nought restrains-- +Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for +One drop within the Poet's pure veins. + +LERMONTOFF. +[1] _These four lines are from Pushkin's own romantic poem, "Onegin."_ + + + + +RUSSIA, O MY RUSSIA, HAIL! + +Russia, O my Russia, hail! +Steeds as tempests flying, +Howling of the distant wolves, +Eagles high, shrill crying! +Hail, my Russia, hail! Hail high! +Hail thy green forests proud, +Hail thy silvery nightingales, +Hail Steppes and wind and cloud! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +THE WOLVES + +When the church-village slumbers + And the last songs are sung, +When the grey mist arising, + Is o'er the marshes hung, +'Tis then the woods forsaking, +Their way cross country taking, +Nine howling wolves come hungering for food. + +Behind the first,--the grey one,-- + Trot seven more of black, +Close on their hoary leader; + As rearguard of the pack +The red wolf limps, all bloody, +His paws with gore still ruddy +As after his companions grim he pants. + +When through the village lurking + Nought gives them check or fright, +No watch dog dares to bellow, + The peasant ghastly white, +His breath can scarce be taking, +His limbs withhold from shaking-- +While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips! + +About the church they circle + And softly slink away +To prowl about the priest's farm, + Then of a sudden they +Are round the drink shop turning, +Fain some bad word be learning-- +From peasants drinking noisily within. + +With fully thirteen bullets + Thy weapon must be armed, +And with a wad of goat's hair; + Then thou wilt fight unharmed. +Fire calmly,--and before all +Will the leader, the grey, fall, +The rest will surely follow one by one. + +When the cock wakes the village + From out its morning dream, +Thou wilt behold the corpses-- + Nine she-wolves by the stream! +On the right lies the grey one, +To left in frost the lame one-- +All bloody,--God pardon us sinners! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +AUTUMN + +Autumn 'tis! Our garden stands + Flowerless and bare, +Dizzy whirling yellow leaves + Fill the wind swept air. +Yet the distant mountain ash + In the vale below, +With our favorite berries red + Now begins to glow. +While with rapture and with pain + Throbbing in my breast, +Pressing hot thy hands in mine, + Silent, unexpressed-- +Fondly gazing in thine eyes, + Through my tears I see-- +That I can never tell thee + How dear thou art to me! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY + +Burnt out is now my misery-- + love's yearning +No more unspeakably torments my heart, +Yet bearable alone through thee, my being-- +All thou art not is idle, stale and dying, +Colourless, withered, dead,--save where thou art! + +If I no more through false suspicion trouble +Thy happiness,--nor more my blood inflames my veins, +It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover, +But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover +Always with soul of ardour true remains. + +So in their rapid fury mountain torrents +That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep, +Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot-- +Here in the vale are bound in the old currents, +To stream in future calm and clear and deep! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE + +In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea! + It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow; + O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrow +I swear I am no longer true to thee! + +The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy, + From far away, with joy, to the belovéd shore; + And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more, +Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +SWANS + +White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me! +Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew-- +From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew, +And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep, +And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep. +O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +TO SLEEP + +When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves, +Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves-- +Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep, +When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep; +When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings, +The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,-- +Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,--o'er grown +By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn. +And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown-- +Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound, +And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast-- +The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest. +A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds, +Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads, +Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses +And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER + +Clear on the night of my spirit, +To me shines the glance of a star, +It is she! My heart's little maiden! +From her glance gleams something afar, +Of victory, deathless, eternal-- +Something that musing, misgiving, +Pierces the essence of being! + +It cannot be! It cannot be! +She lives--soon she will waken; straightway +Will ope her pretty eyes,--glad she +Will prattle merry, laughing gay! +And when in tears beholding me-- +Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling, +"Papa--it is but playing--See! +I live,--yes! Leave off mourning!" + But cold and mute she lies, alas! + And motionless. + +Now in her coffin she lies, +Silent amid scented flowers-- +Ah what mute spirits in white +O'er her corpse circle and hover? +Are they the visions of bliss? +Are they all spirits of hope? +That during life lured her on-- + +Those to whom secretly oft +She had entrusted her soul? +They that accompanied her e'er, +Faithful in forest and field? +Silent they circle my child, +In tearful anguish embraced-- +Yet little actress she lies, +Smiling, closed lashes beneath; +See, she is laughing in truth-- +thou most merciless Death! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +MOTHER AND CHILD + +"Mother, why weepest thou ever + For my little sister fair? +She is now in heaven's kingdom-- + Ah, it must be wondrous there!" + +"Yes, she is in heaven's glory, + But in heaven's own land, alas! +There are no butterflies nor flowers-- + Nor meadows of velvet grass!" + +"But mother, God's blessed angels + There, rejoicing sing to Him!" +Forth from the sunset's rosy fires + Now cometh the midnight dim. + +Ah, the mother wants her baby-- + That she watched from the window wide, +When 'mid butterflies and blossoms + She played in the meadow's pride! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +AN EASTER GREETING + +The lark at sunrise trills it high-- +The greeting Christ is risen! +And through the wood the black-bird pipes +The greeting Christ is risen! +Beneath the eaves the swallows cry +The greeting Christ is risen! +Throughout the world man's heart proclaims +The greeting Christ is risen! +And echo answers from the grave +In truth, yes, He is risen! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +AT EASTER + +Drawing near the Easter Sunday +With the Easter-greeting kiss; +When I come, remember Dora-- +Not alone we suffer this! +Then, as were it for the first time-- +Kiss thou me and I kiss thee; +Thou with modest eyelids downcast, +I with but ill stifled glee! + +MAIKOW. + +_The religious custom of the Easter-greeting kiss prevails throughout +Russia_. + + + + +O MOUNTAINS OF MY NATIVE COUNTRY! + +"O mountains of my native country! O valleys of my home! +On you gleam Winter's snowflakes white and twinkle lambs of Summer-- +On you the rosy sunlight glows, you know no deathly shudder!" + +So, 'neath the earth did wistful yearn three homesick youths in Hades, +Who fain from out that under world to worlds above would hasten. + The first declared "We'll go in Spring!" The second "No, in Summer!" +"No," cried the third, "at harvesting, in time the grapes to gather!" +A listening maiden fair, o'erheard with heart resistless throbbing; +Upon her breast her arms she crossed and begged of them imploring-- + "O take me to the upper world!" Alone the youths made answer, +"That cannot be, you fairest maid, that you with us be taken! +Your heels would clatter as you speed, your dress would rustle silken, +Your rattling ornaments warn death to hear us all escaping." + +"My rustling dress I will unlace,--my ornaments forsaking, +Barefooted up the stairway steep will mute and cautious follow! +Ah, but too gladly would I gaze again on earthly living! +I fain my mother would console, sad for her daughter grieving-- +would my brothers twain behold, who for their sister sorrow!" + "O do not yearn, thou wretched child, for those thou lovest, ever! +Thy brothers in the village street now joyful lead the wrestling-- +And with the neighbors on the street thy mother gossips zestful!" + +MAIKOW. + + + + +THE AEOLIAN HARP + +The land lies parched in sun,--to heaven the air is still, +Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings' lost thrill; +Aeolian harps our native singers are,--and numb +Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow, +Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb +Their breath be suffocated in this sultry glow! +O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging, +Stormed through our native land,--Spirit with freedom rife! +How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringing +To greet the Godly power that promises new life! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +YE SONGS OF MINE! + +Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows + A living witness ye; +Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing + Tempestuous and free, +The hard heart of humanity assailing + As doth her cliffs the sea! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +IN WAR + +Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled, + By each new victim of the combat torn-- +Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity, + Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn. +Alas! the wife will find a consolation. + The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn. + +But somewhere is the one soul that remembers-- + That will remember unto death's dark shore, +Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother + Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore. +One soul there is that like the weeping willow + Can never raise its drooping branches more. + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +THE SONGS OF SIBERIAN EXILES + +We stand unbroken in our places, +Our shovels dare to take no rest, +For not in vain his golden treasure +God buried deep in earth's dark breast. + +Then shovel on and do not falter, +Humble and hopeful, clear we see-- +When Russia has grown rich and mighty, +Our grandchildren will grateful be! + + * * * * * + +Though streams the sweat in rivers downward, +Our arms from shoveling grown weak, +Our bodies frozen to an ice crust +While we new strength in slumber seek-- + +Sweating or freezing, we will bear it! +Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand, +For each stone is of use to Russia, +And each is given by our own hand! + +NEKRASSOW. + +_Written to a band of political exiles including some of the highest +aristocracy_. + + + + +FREEDOM + +Oft through my native land I roved before, +But never such a cheerful spirit bore. + +When on its mother's breast a child I spy-- +Hope in my inmost heart doth secret cry, + +"Boy, thou art born within a favoring time, +Thine eyes shall glad escape old sights of crime. + +Free as a child, thou can'st prove all and be +The forger sole of thine own destiny. + +Peasant remain,--as to thy father given-- +Or like the eagle swing thyself to heaven!" + +Castles in air I build! Man's spirit opes +To many ways to frustrate all my hopes. + +Though serfdom's sad conditions left behind, +Yet there be countless snares of varied kind!-- + +Well! Although the people soon may rend thee, +Let me, oh Freedom, a welcome send thee! + +NEKRASSOW. + +_Written shortly after the freeing of the serfs_. + + + + +A FAREWELL + +Farewell! Forget the days of trial, +Of grudge, ill humor, misery-- +Tempests of heart and floods of weeping, +And the revengeful jealousy. +Ah, but the days whereon the sun rose +To light love's wonder, and begot +In us the power of aspiration,-- +bless them and forget them not! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +THE LOVE LETTER + +Letter of love so strangely thrilling +With all your countless wonder yet, +Though Time our heart's hot fires have mastered, +Bringing a pang of pained regret! +The while your blest receiver holds you, +His banished passions still rebel, +No longer reason sacrifices +His sentiment,--so then farewell! +Destroyed be this love-token treasured! +For if 'tis read when time has flown, +Deep in the buried soul 'twill waken +The torment vanished days have known. +At first but a light scorn arousing +For silly childishness,--at last +With fiery yearning overwhelming, +And jealousy for all the past. + +O Thou, from whom a myriad letters +Speak with the breath of love to me, +Though my gaze rest on thee austerely, +Yet, yet,--I cannot part with thee! +Time has revealed with bitter clearness +How little thou with truth wert blessed, +How like a child my own behaviour-- +Yet, dear to me I still must save +This flower scentless, without colour, +From off my manhood's early grave! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +WHAT THE SLEEPLESS GRANDAM THINKS + +All through the cold night, beating wings shadowy + Sweep o'er the church-village poor,-- +Only one Grandam a hundred years hoary, + Findeth her slumber no more. + + +Harkens, if cocks to the dawn be not crowing, + Rolls on her oven and weeps, +Sees all her past rising up to confront her-- + O'er her soul shameful it creeps! + +"Woe to me sinner old! Woe! Once I cheated-- + When from the church door I ran, +And in the depths of the forest strayed hidden + With my beloved Ivan. + +"Woe to me! Burning in hell's leaping fires + Surely will soon be my soul! +I took a pair of eggs once at a neighbor's-- + Out from her hen--yes, I stole! + +"Once at the harvest at home I did linger-- + Swore I was deadly sick,--when +Taking my part in the drunken carousals + Saturday night with the men! + +"Light was I ever with soldiers! Yet cursing + God's name, when from me at last,-- +My own son they took for a soldier! + Even drank cream on a fast. + +"Woe to me sinner! Woe to me wretched one! + Woe! My heart broken will be! +Holy Madonna, have pity, have mercy! + Into court go not with me!" + +NEKRASSOW. + +_The stoves of the peasants are built so that they can sleep on top of +them in the extreme cold of Winter_. + + + + +TO RUSSIA + +'Neath a giant tent +Of the heavens blue, +Stretch the verdant Steppes; +Range beyond the view. + +On the distant rim +Lift the outlines proud, +Of their mountain walls +To the drifting cloud. + +Through the Steppes there rolls +Stream on stream to sea, +Wide meandering, +Straying far and free. + +Do I Southward gaze-- +Like the ocean there, +Ripening fields of grain +Wave and ripple fair. + +Softest velvet sod +Decks the meadow floor, +In the vineyards green +Swells the grape once more. + +Do I Northward turn-- +O'er the waste lands lone, +Soft as eider down +Are the snowflakes blown. + +And his azure waves +High the ocean lifts, +On his cold blue breast +Now an iceberg drifts. + +And as leaping flame +Burn the Northern lights, +On the darkness gleam +Through the silent nights. + +Even so art thou, +Russian realm, become,-- +Thou my native land, +Shield of Christendom! + +Far away hast thou, +Throughout lands untold, +In thy glory fair, +Russia, been enrolled! + +Art thou not in space +E'en o'er well supplied? +Where a spirit bold +Freely wanders wide! + +Hast thou not alway +Gold and grain rich stored? +For thy friend a feast? +For thy foe a sword? + +Guards and shields thee not +With a sacred might, +Holy altar forms, +Deeds of glory bright? + +To whom hast thou e'er +Bent an humble knee? +Or before whom bowed +Seeking charity? + +In the Kurgan deep, +Met in open fight, +Thou hast e'en subdued +The fierce Tartar's might. + +Fought to bloody death +The Lithuanian horde, +The defiant Pole +Scattered with a sword. + +And how long ago, +Black clouds, rising out +Of the distant West, +Compassed thee about? + +'Neath the lightning flash +Sank the woods away, +Trembled the earth's breast, +Piercéd with dismay. + +And the inky smoke +Ruinous did rise +From the village burnt +To the cloudy skies. + +Loudly to the fight +Then the Tsar did call-- +Russia swift replied, +Coming one and all. + +Women, children came-- +Men from age to youth, +Gave their evil guest +Bloody feast in truth! + +And in lonely fields +Under ice and snow, +To his endless sleep +Laid the victim low. + +Where the snowstorms wild +Raised o'er him a tomb, +While the North wind sang +Dirges in the gloom. + +Town and village too +Over all our land, +Now like ant hills swarm +With this Christian band. + +Now from distant shores +O'er the cruel sea, +Ship on ship draws near +Homage paying thee. + +Blooming are thy fields, +Soft thy forests sigh, +Hid in earth's dark breast +Golden treasures lie. + +And to East and West, +To the South and North-- +Flies thy louder fame +Through the wide world forth! + +Holy Russia, thou +Dost deserve to be +"Mother" called by all, +In our love to thee! + +For thy glory fair +We should face the foe, +And thy freedom guarding +Glad our lives bestow! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT + +To seven kopek the heir, + Nor house nor land have I-- +Live I--hey! I live then! + Die I--hey! I die! + +In many realms the Fool + Can sleep no wink for care, +While yet the spendthrift snores + When dawns the morning fair. + +Free as the wind he blows, + Door nor gate to balk him, +Riches, hey! Now give place! + Poverty goes walking! + +Before me bends the rye + When through the fields I stray +And glad the forest hears + My pipe and song alway. + +If one must bitter weep-- + No man will see his tears, +If sadly bowed his head-- + None save the partridge jeers. + +If weary one, or not, + What matters anything? +Let him toss back his locks + And playful laugh and sing! + +And if one die,--the grave + Will warm his hands and feet! +Dost to my song respond? + Nay? Then it is complete. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD + +The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould.... +O Life,--so o'erflowing with sorrows untold, +My life, so homeless and lonely and weary, +Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary-- +Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky, +And as a fire of the field wilt thou die! +Die then--no sad falling tear will recall thee, +Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee, +Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted-- +Only one more from humanity parted; +One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing-- +One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing! + +Hark! What a silvery music is ringing! +Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing! +See on ethereal azure waves swinging, +Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging! +Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears, +Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +GOSSIP + +Though blameless thy living + As Anchorite's fate, +Yet Gossip will find thee + Or early or late. + +Through keyhole he enters + And stands at thy side, +Doors of wood nor of stone + Against him provide. + +He pulls the alarm bell + At slightest excuse-- +And down to thy grave + Will pursue with abuse. + +Self defence nothing boots thee, + Thy flight he will worst-- +To earth he will tread thee, + O Gossip be cursed! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +IN A PEASANT HUT + +Sultry dampness--pine chips smoking, +Off-scourings a span length, +In the corners webs of spiders, +Smut on dish and bench. + +Sooty black the bare wall, crock stained, +Water--dry hard bread; +Groanings, coughings, children's whimper, +Wretched bitter need! + +And a beggar's death for years of +Harshest drudgery-- +Learn to put your trust in God here, +And to patient be. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +WINTER NIGHT IN THE VILLAGE + +O'er the church roof wanders + Mute and calm the moon, +Blue upon the snowdrifts + Sparkling silent down. + +By the small pond dreaming, + Stands the church a'gleam-- +With its gold cross twinkling + As a taper's beam. + +Peaceful in the village + Darkness reigns and sleep, +Every hut is standing + Snowed in window deep. + +Out upon the highway + Hushed and empty all, +Now the howling watch dogs + Even, silent fall. + +After their day's labor + Young and old are pressed +Weak and worn, on their hard + Narrow place of rest. + +In one cottage only + Shines a lamplight, where +A sick old hoary-head + Groans in soul-despair. + +Death is near,--and of her + Grandchildren thinks she, +Smitten sore the orphans + Harvest time will be. + +Ah the poor, poor children! + Now so young for strife, +All untried and helpless + In the woe of life! + +Among stranger people + Older they will grow-- +Evil hearts will lure them + Evil ways to go. + +With disgrace too early + They will make a bond, +Shamed and God forsaken + Sink unto the ground. + +Dear God, thyself take them, + Thy forsaken poor-- +Staff and light be to them + Thyself evermore! + +And the sacred lamplight + Calm and silent strays; +On the holy pictures + Fall its trembling rays; + +O'er the aged features, + O'er the dying form, +O'er the two small children + On the stove bench warm. + +Sudden, through the stillness + Rings a merry cry-- +And his jingling troika + Drives a reveller by! + +Dies in silent distance + Sleighbell clangor strong, +And the careless, merry, + Sorrow-troubling song. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE BIRCH TREE + +From bald and sun-parched earth it rises, + One lonely birch, high towering-- +Upon its withered crown wide spreading, + Green leafage never more will sing. + +Up to the rim of the horizon + Where veiling mists all soft enclose, +Runneth the blossoming of flowers, + The Steppe's green ocean waving flows. + +In green enchantment stands the Kurgan, + Where evening dampness doth enfold, +The night descends with sleep and coolness, + The morning sunbeams touch with gold. + +Yet loveless, helpless stands the birch tree-- + In heaven's grey, musing sad to view, +And from its branches fall like tear-drops + The gleaming pearls of morning dew. + +Scattered, alas! her tender leaflets, + In howling storms,--so far, so wide! +Ne'er will the birch, to greet the Springtide, + Be fresh adorned in leafy pride! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +NORTH AND SOUTH + +Knowest thou the land of fragrance ardent glowing? +Where night sublimely sparkles on the flowing +Of the sea? Murmuring in starlight gleam-- +Weaving about the heart a wonder dream? +Refulgent in the silvering moonbeams white, +In soft half darkness, gardens slumbering light; +Only the fountain's iridescent foam +Upon the grass falls splashing down-- +And images of Gods with lips of silence +Sunk in deep musing gaze on every side-- +While, eloquent of fallen majesty, +Ruins entwined with ivy tendrils be? +Soft pictured on the valley's verdant meadows +Dark cypress trees reflect their slender shadows; +Earth's bosom blooming in fecundity-- +And freedom here man's joyful destiny. + +Yet more than tropic's soft abundance thralling, +My stormy North-land wilderness is calling! +Her snowflake flocks, her gleaming midnight frosts, +The glory of grim forests on her coasts, +Green tinted Steppes with distant bluish rim-- +The trooping clouds in heaven's spaces dim. +Unto the heart how the familiar cries! +The village mean that in the valley lies, +The wealthy cities' towering majesty, +The empty snow-fields' endless boundary,-- +The changeful moods that all unbridled throng; +Spirit of Russia and of Russian song! +With joy now gushing forth,--with pain now ringing-- +Unto the hearer's heart resistless singing. + +Thou fairest picture! my breast with rapture sighs, +My spirits free, victorious arise! +A song breaks forth to Russia's praise and glory, +And tears of joy, the while I muse, are flowing. +And jubilant the kindling heart must cry-- +Hail Russia, Hail! Thy loyal son am I! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +HUNGER + +Hark! Who knocks with bony fingers + On the hut's small window latch? +Hark! Who pulls away the stubble + Rustling, from the roofing thatch? + +From the fields it is not Vintage, + Drunk and weary wavers home-- +'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy, + As a nightmare dread become. + +All subduing, all destroying, + In his ragged garment poor, +Drags he,--on his crutches limping-- + Noiseless reeling through the door. + +Like the usurer hard hearted, + For his last kopek in quest, +Coffer, cupboard both he opens, + Breaks the lock of case and chest. + +Lordly rules he, late and early-- + In the granary; when gone +Every kernel of provision, + The last cattle he will pawn. + +From the land unto the cellar, + Clean the peasant's hut he keeps, +With a coarse and clumsy besom + Every tiny crumb he sweeps. + +On the village highway also + Works and wins he over all, +From the threshing floor to stable-- + From the sheepfold to the stall. + +His approaching, sorrow follows-- + On his coming, follows need, +On his greeting, follows sickness, + On his hand-shake Death succeeds! + +So he seeks in all directions, + East and West and South and North-- +And in empty field embraces + Thankfully his friend the Frost! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +FADED THE FOOTSTEP OF SPRING FROM OUR GARDEN + +Faded the footstep of Spring from our garden, + Sighing the Autumn wind vanishing goes, +Behold now, how close to us dreams are approaching-- + Love, it is time for repose! + +List, how the leafage in raindrops all tearful + Trembles and wails for a sorry defeat,-- +All that was ours, that we once proudly boasted, + All, was a glittering cheat. + +Dark as a funeral pall hanging over, + Fluttering clouds in their mockery close; +Sighing within us is silenced our singing-- + Love, it is time for repose. + +Deceitful from heaven's fair emerald rainbow, + Soft borrowed glamour of moonbeams doth woo; +Since even you to my faith were disloyal, + Love, my false Springtime were you! + +Soon will the sunbeams last radiant shining + Trackless be hurled where the Autumn wind blows, +Slumber enmeshes my soul and the darkness-- + Love, it is time for repose! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +THE BEGGAR + +There stood a beggar asking alms + By the cathedral gate, +His face bore torture marks of life-- + Pale, tired, blind--like fate. + +Thin, tired, pale and blind he begged + A crust of bread alone, +And some one pausing, placed within + His outstretched hand--a stone. + +And even so I asked your love, + I brought my dreams, my life--the while +Unto my passion you replied + Only with your cold smile! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +WITH ROSES + +Darling, accept my bunch of perfumed roses;-- + Because in royal beauty and in freshness sweet +They dared to rival you,--I cut them down and bound + The criminals and brought them to your feet. + +_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_. + + + + +THE STARS + +With joy in your heart and a smile on your lips + You admired the soft Southern night, +And do you know when your beautiful eyes + Were remarked, all the stars at the sight +Were put out and turned faint in the skies? + +This morning they brought their complaint to the sun-- + "In ether a star quite unknown! +If to-night this same comet shall shine + Whose radiance extinguished our own, +We must all, our old splendor resign!" + +And sadly the sun made them answer,--"Alas! + Before her, I am pale at high noon;-- +See, to-day all is rainy and cold, + 'Tis the trace of defeat seen so soon, +'Tis the trace of eclipse you behold!" + + * * * * * + +O happy the being whose life from afar + Shall be lighted by such a lode star! + +_From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine_. + + + + +WHISPERS AND THE TIMID BREATHING + +Whispers and the timid breathing, + Nightingale's long trill, +Silver moonlight and the rocking + Of the dreaming rill; +Nightly light and nightly shadow, + Shadow's endless lace-- +Neath the moon's enchanted changes + The Beloved's face. +Blinking stars as flash of amber, + Snowy clouds on-rush, +Tears and happiness and kisses-- + And the dawn's red blush! + +FROM "FÊTE CHENCHINE." + +_Fête Chenchine, so-called, has no rival in impressionistic effects. The +above without a verb is a good instance of his peculiar caprice_. + + + + +THE TALES OF THE STARS + +The stars of beauty, the stars of purity, + Have whispered their wonderful tales to the flowers! +The satiny petals have smiled as they heard, + And trembled the emerald leaves 'mid their bowers. +But infatuate flowers deep drunken of dew + Repeated these tales to the light swaying breeze-- +Rebellious winds listening swift caught them up + And sang them o'er earth, o'er the mountains and seas! +Now, as the earth under Springtime's caresses: + With her verdant tissue is covered once more, +All my madly passionate soul overflows + With dreams of the stars and their radiant lore! +And throughout these days of my sorrow and toil, + Through these nights of my loneliness, darkness and rain-- +Stars wondrous and radiant, I give back to you, + Your ethereal fancies again! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +ONE DEAREST PAIR OF EYES I LOVE + +One dearest pair of eyes I love! + Entranced my heart beneath their spell-- +Clearer than clearest ray they are, + But where they are--I will not tell! + +Through silk of wondrous lashes soft, + Their burning beams are flashing bright, +Upon my knees, a slave I kneel-- + Before those miracles of light. + +The storm is growing in my soul, + Tempest of pain and happiness-- +I love one dearest pair of eyes, + But whose they are--I'll not confess! + +GIPSY SONG. + + + + +A GIPSY SONG + +Pile of embers in the darkness, + Sparks expire as they fly-- +Night conceals us from the passing, + On the bridge we'll say good-by! + +At the parting, shawl of crimson + Cross my shoulders thou shalt lace, +At an end the days swift passing, + Met within this shaded place. + +In the morning, with first splendour, + All my life compelled to rove-- +I shall leave with other gipsies + Seeking happiness and love. + +How does fate foretell my future? + Who, to-morrow by my side, +O'er my heart will loose with kisses + Knots by thy dear hand fast tied? + +Flash of embers in the darkness, + Sparks expire as they fly-- +Night conceals us from the passing, + On the bridge we'll kiss good-by! + +POLONSKY. + + + + +AT LAST + +No word,--not e'en a sigh, my darling! + Together now the silence keeping; +In truth as o'er some grave stone leaning + The silent willows low are weeping, +And drooping o'er it so are reading-- + I read in thy tired heart at last, +That days of happiness existed, + And that this happiness is past. + +PLESTCHEEFF. + + + + +BY AN OPEN WINDOW + +So sultry is the hour I throw the casement wide, + Fall on my knees beside it in the gloom, +And cowering before me lies the balmy night, + Wafted aloft the breath of lilac bloom. +The nightingale her plaint from a near thicket sobs, + I listen to the singer, share the woe-- +With a longing for my home within me waking, + The home I looked on last so long ago! +And the nightingales of home with their familiar song! + And lilacs in my childhood gardens fair! +How the languors of the night possess my being, + Restoring my lost youth on perfumed air! + +THE GRAND DUKE CONSTANTINE. + + + + +WITH THE GREATNESS OF GOD + +With the greatness of God all my heart is on fire! + Such a beauty to earth does He lend-- +He created eternity for our desire, + To our torment has given an end. + +NADSON. + + + + + +THE POET + +Ne'er have I sung in idle hours of dreaming, +With verse harmonious and sweet-voiced rhyme, +I have sung only when in tempest raging +My soul was shaken by a power sublime! +For each thought I have suffered and been troubled, +No dream creation painless from me torn, +The blessed lot of Poet not seldom seeming +A cross intolerable to be borne! +Oft have I sworn to evermore keep silence, +To mingle and be lost among the crowd, +But when the winds once more their strings are sweeping-- +Aeolian harps must ever cry aloud; +And in the Spring the flooding streams on-rushing +Must downward plunge into the vale below, +When from the rocky peaks' high towering summits +The sun's warm rays have melted off the snow. + +NADSON. + + + + +TO THE MUSE + +Take from thy brow the laurel--cast it forth! + May it in dust lie 'neath thy feet; +The blood-flecked thorn crown hurl away-- + As witness of thy pain alone 'tis meet! + +NADSON. + + + + +A FRAGMENT + +Hark! The storm petrel shrieks! + Reef the sail canvas fast! +See, the Spirit of Storm with wildest commotion +Has to heaven's arched vaulting his coronal pressed, +While his heels dam the flood gates of ocean! +Furious storm-cloud his undulent drapery, +Girded round with the lightning wide flashing; +O'er the sea's leaden billows from his threatening hand +The thunderbolts are sent crashing! + +NADSON. + + + + +IN MAY + +To you,--you beggars in the forests proud,-- +To pastures free, my hasting foot returns! +The May is come! It smiles and laughs aloud-- +For Love's desire, freedom's bliss, it yearns. +Erased the marks of city slavery, +Here where the sun gleams gold through azure hours-- +Here wrests the spirit from all bondage free, +The fields grown green and the syringa flowers! + +Storms only, brought my youthful morning red, +And night of soul and wilderness of pains-- +All in my breast is hushed and numb and dead, +The pulsing fever stopped within my veins; +Yet here, where Nature winds a wreath for me, +The arms stretch forth,--the weary glance devours-- +And the arrested soul exults and sings, +The fields grow green and the syringa flowers! + +NADSON. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF N.M.D. + +Slumber soft,--oh thou my heart's beloved! +Death alone can bring eternal rest, +And in death alone 'neath tearless lashes +Shall thine eyes forever close be pressed; +In thy grave, no more with fevered doubting +Shall thy golden head tormented be, +In thy grave alone, thou'lt never long for +All that life so cruel robbed from thee. + +Through the grass, white yet thy coffin shining-- +O'er thy grave the cross is looming white, +As in silent prayer unto the heavens +Mournful gleaming through the cold blue night. +Now with tears my eyes are overflowing, +Hotter tears I ne'er before have wept-- +All the bitter sorrows I have suffered +In one sobbing cry together swept. + +Spring across the fields will be returning +With her silver nightingales, ere long-- +Through the dusky nights of silence piercing +E'en thy grave with her inspiring song, +And the lindens whispering, will murmur-- +Breathless die away, and sighing cease, +But thou--slumber soft my heart's beloved, +Death alone can bring eternal peace! + +NADSON. + + + + +AT THE GRAVE OF N.M.D. + +Forsaken am I now anew, +Night's sombre wings o'er me descending, +As tearless, meditating, dumb-- +Above thy grave's low mound I'm bending. +Naught offers recompense for thee, +No hopes console or fears betray-- +For whom now live I in this world? +For whom on earth now shall I pray? + +NADSON. + + + + +IN DREAMS + +In my dreams I saw heavens bespangled, + With silvery stars all adorned, +And pale green sorrowing willows + Drooping low o'er the pale blue pond. +I saw in syringa embowered + A cottage, and thou my heart's Dove-- +And bowed was thy little curly head, + My beautiful sad pale Love! + +Thou wert weeping, the teardrops shining + Were flowing from thy yearning gaze, +For love the roses wept also, + For joy sobbed the nightingale. +And every tear found consoling-- + A greeting from near and from far, +The garden was lit by a glow worm, + Enraptured the heavens a star! + +NADSON. + + + + +THE OLD GREY HOUSE + +Thou hospitable old grey house,--A greeting unto thee! + With thy red ochre roofs,--vine trellised o'er; +The gardens fair laid forth in blooming luxury, +The fields in glinting beads of dew stretched endlessly, + Beneath the sun's fresh kiss a gilded floor! + +A silvery ribbon through the flowering green-- + The icy billows of the river foam, +Above her clay-white strand are verdant arbours seen, +Spun o'er with leafage, through the waking land between, + And where the azure river's currents roam. + +Prattling, the river lisps of love and of repose-- + And in the distance shimmers, faintly dies; +A flower, secret listening as its message flows, +A roguish kiss of gratitude in fragrance blows, + While beckoning stars smile from the silent skies. + +I greet thee, home and mother! Joys now charm anew + That I believed but once to me were given; +Thee I forsook,--and now my last expiring view +Turns back from fruitless conflict to thy vision true, + Love, no more mine, nor hope nor peace of heaven! + +Mother and home, I greet thee! O caress thy child + Whom weariness, regret, despair assail-- +With sighing of thy groves in the soft wind beguiled, +With sunbeams of thy Springtime smiling fair and mild, + And with the liquid song of nightingales! + +Let me once only weep in the assurance blest + That I am not girt round with human scorn, +Let me but sleep once more upon thy gentle breast, +Forgetting in my childish, deeply-dreaming rest + The loss and failure of my life forlorn! + +NADSON. + + + + +CALL HIM NOT DEAD + +Call him not dead,--he lives! + Ah you forget +Though the pyre lies in ruin the fires upward sweep, +The string of the harp is broken but her chords still weep, +The rose is cut but it is blooming yet! + +NADSON. + + + + + +BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES + + +ALEXANDER SERGJEWITSCH PUSHKIN was born at Moscow, May 26, 1799. His +first poetical influence came from his nurse who taught him Russian +tales, legends and proverbs, and to whom, with loving recognition, he +was grateful to the end of his life. His grandmother and this nurse +taught him to read and write. In his seventh year he began the study of +foreign languages; German, French,--which was as his mother tongue to +him,--and mathematics, which he hated. At nine the passion of reading +possessed him and he devoured his father's library, which included the +French erotics, Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopedists. His own +first poetical work was indeed written in French. In 1811 he was sent to +the school then just opened, at Tzarskoe Selo near Petersburg. Here, +however, he learned little, the students being more interested in +drinking bouts and platonic relations with barmaids and actresses; in +spite of which the art of poetry was worshiped and Pushkin with others +among his friends published a journal in manuscript that circulated +their own contributions. He was later graduated from the Alexandrovsky +Lyceum, the highest and most splendid civil school of that time, and +entered the department of Foreign Affairs. Although he retained his +entire sympathy with the poetic brotherhood, he now frequented the +salons of the titled aristocracy and gave himself up to the vortex of +luxurious society. Because of his political satires and too free +opposition to the government, he was sent away from Petersburg in 1820, +and attached to the Governor of the South Russian Colonies. Here he fell +ill and went to the Caucas for recovery. It was in the Crimea that he +learned to know and wonder over Byron. He remained three years in +Kischinew,--in the service chiefly of wine, women and cards. In 1823 he +went to Odessa as attaché of the General Governor Count Woronzow, whom +he pursued with biting epigram,--until in 1824 the poet of "Russlan and +Ludimilla" was removed from the service and banished to his mother's +estates by order of the Tsar Alexander I. + +These two years of unwilling retirement worked mightily upon the soul of +Pushkin so filled with storm and stress. He struck off the chains of +Byron and steeped himself in Shakespeare; writing at this period his +drama of Boris Godunow. Nicholas First amnestied the poet and recalled +him to Moscow, instituting himself censor of all future work; likewise +placing Pushkin under the all-powerful Chief of Police Count +Benkendorff, from whom Lermontoff later had also so much to suffer. In +1829 Pushkin went to the Caucas and with the Russian army to Erzum. In +1830 he inherited from his father the management of But Boldino, where +he finished "Onegin," and three other dramas. In 1831 he was married at +Moscow to Natalie Nikolajewa Gontsharowa, whose beauty had for three +years held him in her toils. In the same year he was appointed to the +foreign office again. In 1833 the poem was published that won him his +fatal commission. Pushkin fell, as did Lermontoff later, a victim of the +envy and hatred of high society. At this time many responsible positions +were held in Russia by Frenchmen who had fled the terrors of the +revolution. Such a French émigré was D'Anthes, who pursued the wife of +Pushkin with his compromising attentions, until at a ball the poet was +almost forced to challenge him. The pistol duel, that Count Benkendorff +with cunning foresight did nothing to prevent, took place June 27, 1837. +In two days the poet was free from his tormentors forever. He was buried +in the Swatjatorgorische cloister and statues have been erected to his +honor at Petersburg, Moscow and many other cities throughout Russia. His +service to Russian literature can only be compared with that of Dante +for Italy,--since there was practically no Russian poetry before Pushkin +and he may be said to have created the Russian language as it is spoken +to-day. + + +MICHAIL JURJEWITSCH LERMONTOFF was born October 14, 1814, at Moscow. +From his father he inherited the love of brilliant society, from his +mother the love of music and an unusually sensitive temperament. When he +was but two and a half years old his mother died and he became the idol +of his grandmother, by whom he was spoiled, until the wilfulness of +youth became the arrogance and domineering quality so distinguishing his +maturity. Being a delicate child, his grandmother took him at the age of +ten to the Caucas,--which he deeply loved ever after. In 1827 he was +placed in the Adelige Pension at Moscow, having been previously much +influenced by a German nurse who inspired him with a love of German +legend and poetry, and also by his tutor, an officer in the Napoleonic +guard, who had taught him French. Up to 1831 he was under the German +unfluence [Transcriber's note: sic] in literature, but then he came +under the influence of Byron, and from this time he was never free of +the impression of the poet so congenial to his own spirit and nature. In +1830 he was matriculated by the Moscow University as a student of moral +and political science. In 1832 he went to what is now the Nicolai +Military school in Petersburg, where he wrote his censurable and erotic +poems that were passed about by thousands and won an immense popularity +with the jeunesse doré of the time, but which were regarded as +discreditable by the more serious and thoughtful society. In November, +1832, he was appointed Second Lieutenant in the Life Guard Hussar +regiment, and the young poet now plunged into the vortex of society life +as Pushkin had before him. In 1836 appeared his "Song of the Tsar Ivan +Wassiljewitsch,"--a truly classical achievement in the record of +literature. In 1837 came the poem on the death of Pushkin, that stirred +the aristocratic world and caused his banishment to the Caucas by the +Emperor Nicholas I. In April of the year 1840 he was again banished to +the Caucas for his duel with the son of the historian de Barante, where +he distinguished himself by his valor in conflict with the Tscherkes. In +February of 1841 we find the poet again at Petersburg, where the second +edition of his masterpiece, "A Hero of Our Own Time," was just +appearing. Yet toward the end of April again he was obliged to leave,-- +this time through the influence and hatred of the Countess Benkendorff. +For the third time he went to the Caucas in exile. Here in Petigorsk he +was forced into close relation with one Major Nikolai Solomonowitsch +Martynow,--whom he did not spare from his well deserved scorn. Aroused +by the local society that pursued the poet with hatred and envy, +Martynow challenged him at a ball. The seconds, as also the entire city, +expected a harmless outcome only, especially as Lermontoff, as was known +to his adversary, had declared he should shoot in the air. He held his +hand high with the pistol stretched aloft; Martynow approached, aimed, +fired, and silently the poet fell dead. Thus his own lament for Pushkin +came to be worthily written for himself-- + + "The murderer contemptuous gazing + Did steadfastly his weapon aim--" etc., etc. + +At the foot of the Machook mountains, July 27, 1841, in the +twenty-seventh year of his age, the poet died. After a year the body was +claimed by his grandmother, who lived at this time in the Pensa +district, and his remains were removed to be fitly honored in the family +village of Tarchany. In connection with the tragedy, it is pitiful to +remember that his grandmother wept herself blind over the death of the +poet. + + +COUNT ALEXIS CONSTANTINOWITSCH TOLSTOY was born at Petersburg on the 6th +of September, 1817. At the age of six weeks he was taken away from the +city to Little-Russia, by his mother and maternal uncle, who was +distinguished in Russian literature under the pseudonym of Anton +Perowskij. By this uncle he was brought up, enjoying a singularly happy +and unclouded childhood. Being an only child he played much alone, +living in his dreams and imagination and early developing a love for +poetry. At the age of eight or nine years he was taken by his parents to +Petersburg where he was presented to the heir to the throne, and allowed +to play with his children. The good will shown him at that time he never +lost throughout his entire life. The year following he was taken to +Germany, and while in Weimar was permitted to visit Goethe, which made a +lasting impression upon him. Up to the age of seventeen when he took his +examinations for the University at Moscow, he lived both in Russia and +abroad. After the death of his uncle, who made him his heir, he became +attached, by the wish of his mother, to the Russian Mission at +Frankfort. Later he returned to enter the Second Division of the +Chancellery of His Majesty. At the time of the coronation of Alexander +Second at Moscow, he was appointed to become His Majesty's aide de camp; +an honor he declined, not caring for a military career. He was afterward +made Chief Master of the Royal Hunt, a position he held until the day of +his death. From the age of sixteen he had always written poetry, but not +until 1855 did he begin to publish his lyrics and epics in the journals. +His passion for poetry was extended toward all other forms of art. At +thirteen years of age he made his first journey through Italy,--to +Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples, and his soul grew large with +enthusiasm for every manifestation of beauty, so that upon his return to +Russia he was really homesick for Italy. He said himself that it was +solely due to his passion for hunting that his poems were written in the +major key,--while those of so many of his countrymen were written in the +minor. Count Tolstoy died on the 28th of September, 1875, at his estates +in the government of Tshernigow, where he lies buried. + +His most important works were a romance, a dramatic poem, Don Juan,--and +the dramatic trilogy, The Death of Ivan the Terrible, Tsar Fedor +Ivanowitsch and Tsar Boris. + + +APOLLON NIKOLAJEWITSCH MAIKOW was born June 4, 1821, at Moscow. His +father was a painter; his brothers had rendered important service to +Russian literature in history and criticism. As a boy he was instructed +in the literature of Russia by the afterward famous Gontscharow. At the +age of fifteen he began to write verse. His original intention was to +become a painter, but the weakness of his eyes and his increased +devotion to poetry decided him otherwise. + +He studied jurisprudence at the University of St. Petersburg for several +years, and his final collection of poems was published in 1842, which +was greeted with enthusiasm by the famous critic Belinsky. In the same +year, using the gold he received from the Emperor Nicholas I, he went +abroad. He spent nearly a year in Italy, heard lectures at the College +de France and the Sorbonne during his stay in Paris, and spent some time +in Prague. For a time he served in the Ministry of Finance and from 1852 +in the Foreign Censorship office at Petersburg; being President of that +office at the time of his death which occurred in March, 1897. + + +NIKOLAI ALEXAJEWITSCH NEKRASSOW was born in November, 1821, in a village +of a Polish province. His father married the daughter of a Polish +magnate against the opposition of her parents. The marriage turned out +unhappily. There were fourteen children and the poet always thought of +his mother as a saint and his father as a tyrant,--which appears in +several of his lyric poems. His childhood was spent in Greschenewo +where the family had inherited an estate. He was sent to the government +school or gymnasium, only until the fifth class. At sixteen he went to +Petersburg to pursue a military career by the will of his father. His +desire for knowledge drove him toward the University, but his father +refused his every request, and during his student years he went hungry +very often. He wrote vaudevilles for the Alexander theatre under an +assumed name, and not until 1840 published his first volume of verse. In +his fortieth year he brought out an anthology of Russian poets that was +sufficiently successful to give him a living. In his fiftieth year his +health seemed failing, and he went abroad to Italy, where the disaster +seemed happily averted. The journal with which he had been connected +being now suppressed, he became connected with another for two years. In +December, 1877, he died, widely mourned and called "the singer of +Russian folk song." + + +IVAN SSAWITSCH NIKITIN was born October 3, 1824, at Woronesh. Though his +life was poor in external circumstances, it was all the richer within. +His best biography is his own work, "From the Diary of a Seminarist." +His life opened under rather auspicious influences, for his father owned +a candle factory and was so prosperous that his business amounted yearly +to a hundred thousand roubles. A shoemaker taught the precocious boy to +read, and he was put to school at first in the local school, but this +was exchanged in 1841 for the Seminary. Both here and at home he was, +however, more cudgelled than educated, and his soul was threatened with +suffocation in scholastic confusion. Only one consolation was always +his; literature and poetry. While here the first great misfortune +befell. His father's business failed, the house was turned into an inn +and Ivan, instead of attending the University, as he had expected, was +obliged to sell candles, not only in his father's shop, but as that was +soon taken from him, even in the market place. After a few months his +mother died and his father sacrificed his last remaining possessions for +drink. He insulted and even attacked his son, bidding him leave his +house, and the poor boy was compelled to render the most menial service +to all. For ten long years this condition lasted, yet Ivan remained a +poet! + +In 1853 at the opening of the Crimean war, his patriotic hymn, "To +Russia," appeared in the Woronisher _Times_. This was received with +applause and a circle of intelligent men gathered about him who were +friendly and helpful in their disposition toward him. In 1856 Count +Alexis Tolstoy, the great poet, prepared a volume of his poems for +publication and the imperial family sent him costly gifts. His condition +became improved and by 1859 he had amassed a capital of two thousand +roubles, with which he opened a book-shop, hoping to enlighten the +darkness of his country. To this ideal he gave all his strength and his +money. In 1860 Nikitin went to Petersburg and Moscow to establish +connections with the leading publishing houses; from which no small +literary acquaintance arose. In the Spring of 1861 he suffered from a +throat trouble which developed into bronchial tuberculosis of which he +died on October 16, 1861. His trials with his father and those caused by +his father's extreme intemperance were considered to have greatly +hastened his lamented death. + + +CONSTANTINE MICHAILOWITSCH FOFANOW was born at Petersburg, May 30, 1862. +He is not a highly educated man, and is now living, after a series of +misfortunes, happily surmounted, at Gatschina. + + +SEMIJON JAKOLOWITSCH NADSON was born at Petersburg, December 26, 1862. +On his father's side he was of Hebrew extraction. His grandfather had +formerly embraced the orthodox faith, and his father, from whom he +inherited his musical talent, died in an asylum, in the extreme youth of +the poet. His mother, after contracting a second marriage, which ended +unhappily, died at the age of thirty-one, of consumption. The boy +learned to read and write at the age of four, from an old servant. At +nine he had read widely. In 1875 he suffered from religious doubts, and +even lost his faith in humanity, but his violin and Nature were still of +unfailing support even in this crisis. Before her death his mother had +placed him in the second Cadet Corps as a "pensionnaire." At first he +did well, but soon he began to neglect his school work for poetry. A +poem of his soon appeared in print, and that same year he fell in love +with a girl of sixteen who died with rapid consumption; the M.D.B. of +his poems. Smitten by this blow, he left the school and went to the +Pawlonische Military School. Here he contracted a lung trouble and was +sent to the Caucas. He remained there a year, but was always haunted by +thought of the military career before him, for which he was morally and +physically unfit. His dear dream of the University could not be +realized, and on his return he went again to the military school for two +years of camp life and maneuvres. In September, 1882, he was made second +lieutenant of a Caspian regiment and stationed at Kronstadt. Already the +young poet was making himself known through the journals, and in 1884 he +left off his hated military service. For a short time he was connected +with _Die Woche_, but already signs of tuberculosis had appeared and he +found that a journey abroad was indispensable. On the funds raised by +influential friends, and the prize awarded him by the Russian Literary +Society, he was enabled to go abroad this same year, accompanied by a +friend of his mother. He went to Wiesbaden, Nice, Mentonne, Berne, was +operated upon three times for the trouble in his foot, but to no avail. +His only desire became to return to his native land to die. In the +summer of 1885, he went back to Kiew, where for a time he seemed to +improve and was able to write some criticisms for the journals. When his +left lung gave out, he moved to Yalta in the Crimea. Here he received +the glad news that the Academy had given him the Pushkin award of five +hundred roubles. + +In November he bequeathed all he had written to the literary fund; whose +Nadson capital now amounts to more than two hundred thousand roubles +from the sale of his works. He died in January, 1889. His body was +brought to Petersburg and interred with public honors. His grave, which +is near other celebrated Russian writers, is adorned by a bust from the +hand of the famous sculptor Antokolsky. His poetry enjoys a popularity +beyond that of any one poet in Russian, and has been carried to the +eighteenth edition of one hundred and twenty thousand volumes each. + + +Sketches of the lives of the poets here represented by a single poem are +omitted as unnecessary to enjoyment of their work. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Russian Lyrics +by Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN LYRICS *** + +***** This file should be named 11985-8.txt or 11985-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/9/8/11985/ + +Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/11985-8.zip b/old/11985-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f09047 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11985-8.zip diff --git a/old/11985.txt b/old/11985.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..767338f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11985.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3835 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Russian Lyrics +by Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Russian Lyrics + +Author: Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +Release Date: April 10, 2004 [EBook #11985] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN LYRICS *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + +_Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_ + + THE KISS OF APOLLO + + GABRIELLE AND OTHER POEMS. + + THE SIN OF ANGELS: A Novel + + A COSSACK LOVER: A Novel + + THE CUCKOO'S NEST: A Novel + + A MODERN PROMETHEUS: A Novel of Italy. With a frontispiece + + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS. + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS + + +SONGS OF COSSACK, LOVER, +PATRIOT AND PEASANT + +_DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE_ + +BY +MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI + +_Author of "Within the Hedge," "The Cathedral," "A Modern Prometheus," +"The Cuckoo's Nest" etc_. + +NEW YORK +DUFFIELD AND COMPANY +1916 + +COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY +DUFFIELD AND COMPANY + + +_To +"A soul of passion, mirth and tears_." + + + +CONTENTS + +The Song of the Kazak................................ Pushkin +Cradle Song of a Cossack Mother................... Lermontoff +The Dagger........................................ Lermontoff +Don't Give Me the Wine!..........(From the Georgian of Prince + Tschawtschawadze) +The Delibash......................................... Pushkin +To the Don........................................... Pushkin +The Caucas........................................... Pushkin +The Cloister on Kasbek............................... Pushkin +Goblins of the Steppes............................... Pushkin +Under a Portrait of Jukowsky......................... Pushkin +The Vision........................................... Pushkin +I Loved Thee......................................... Pushkin +Serenade............................................. Pushkin +A Winter Evening..................................... Pushkin +The Last Flower...................................... Pushkin +Stanzas from "Onegin" + Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer................ Pushkin + Sometimes He read Aloud with Olga.................. Pushkin + Love Condescends to Every Altar.................... Pushkin + How Sad to Me is Thine Appearing................... Pushkin +The Memorial......................................... Pushkin +Tamara............................................ Lermontoff +The Gift of the Terek............................. Lermontoff +On Departure for the Caucas....................... Lermontoff +To the Clouds..................................... Lermontoff +To My Country..................................... Lermontoff +To Kasbek......................................... Lermontoff +The Angel......................................... Lermontoff +A Prayer.......................................... Lermontoff +The Sail.......................................... Lermontoff +I Am Not Byron.................................... Lermontoff +Like An Evil Spirit............................... Lermontoff +To A.C.S.......................................... Lermontoff +A Song............................................ Lermontoff +From Demon........................................ Lermontoff +The Prayer........................................ Lermontoff +The Palm Branch of Palestine...................... Lermontoff +The Dispute....................................... Lermontoff +Heaven and the Stars.............................. Lermontoff +On Napoleon's Death............................... Lermontoff +On the Death of Pushkin........................... Lermontoff +Russia, O My Russia, Hail!........................... Tolstoy +The Wolves........................................... Tolstoy +Autumn............................................... Tolstoy +Burnt Out Is Now My Misery........................... Tolstoy +In Hours of Ebbing Tide.............................. Tolstoy +Swans................................................. Maikow +To Sleep.............................................. Maikow +In Memory of My Daughter.............................. Maikow +Mother and Child...................................... Maikow +An Easter Greeting.................................... Maikow +At Easter............................................. Maikow +O Mountains of My Native Country!..................... Maikow +The Aeolian Harp...................................... Maikow +Ye Songs of Mine!.................................. Nekrassow +In War............................................. Nekrassow +A Song of Siberian Exiles.......................... Nekrassow +Freedom............................................ Nekrassow +A Farewell......................................... Nekrassow +The Love Letter.................................... Nekrassow +What the Sleepless Grandam Thinks.................. Nekrassow +To Russia............................................ Nikitin +The Song of the Spendthrift.......................... Nikitin +The Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould....... Nikitin +Gossip............................................... Nikitin +In a Peasant Hut..................................... Nikitin +Winter Night in the Village.......................... Nikitin +The Birch Tree....................................... Nikitin +North and South...................................... Nikitin +Hunger............................................... Fofanow +Faded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden......... Fofanow +The Beggar........................................... Fofanow +With Roses...................... (From the Georgian of Prince + Tschawtschawadze) +The Stars........... (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine) +Whispers and the Timid Breathing.......... ("Fete Chenchine") +The Tales of the Stars.............................. Fofanow +One Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love................. (Gipsy Song) +A Gipsy Song........................................ Polonsky +At Last.......................................... Plestcheeff +By An Open Window................. The Grand Duke Constantine +With the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!.... Nadson +The Poet.............................................. Nadson +To the Muse........................................... Nadson +A Fragment............................................ Nadson +In May................................................ Nadson +In Memory of N.M.D.................................... Nadson +At the Grave of N.M.D................................. Nadson +In Dreams............................................. Nadson +The Old Grey House.................................... Nadson +Call Him Not Dead,--He Lives!......................... Nadson + +Brief Biographical Notes: + Alexander Sergjewitsch Pushkin + Michail Jurjewitsch Lermontoff + Count Alexis Constantinowitsch Tolstoy + Apollon Nikolajewitsch Maikow + Nikolai Alexajewitsch Nekrassow + Ivan Ssawitsch Nikitin + Constantine Michailowitsch Fofanow + Semijon Jakolowitsch Nadson + + + + +To the Reader. + +The translations in this little collection make no pretension to being +more than an effort to share the delight found in them; from which most +of the world is debarred by the difficulty of the language in which they +are written. They have been chosen at random, each for some intrinsic +charm or because of its bearing upon some peculiar phase of the author. +Very few of the lyrics of Pushkin have been included, for the reason +that the great founder of Russian poetry has been more widely translated +than any other Russian poet, and is therefore available in several +languages. + +Remembering always that Heine declared translation was betrayal,--the +rhyme and smoothness have in every case been sacrificed when necessary +to preserve the exact rhythm, and as far as possible the vigour and +colour, as well as thought of the original; a task entirely beyond me +save for the co-operation of an accomplished Russian linguist who has +kindly assisted in the literal translation of every poem here presented. + +M.G.D.B. + + + + +RUSSIAN LYRICS AND +COSSACK SONGS + + + + +THE SONG OF THE KAZAK + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, + Kazak has never heart for rest, +Not on the field, nor in the wood, + Nor when in face of danger pressed +His steed the raging stream must breast! + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, +With him a mighty power brings, +To win the honour of his land + Kazak his life unheeding flings-- +Till fame of him eternal sings! + +Kazak brought all Siberia +At foot of Russia's throne to lie, +Kazak left glory in the Alps, + His name the Turk can terrify, +His flag he ever carries high! + +Kazak speeds ever toward the North, +Kazak has never heart for rest, +Not on the field, nor in the wood, + Nor when in face of danger pressed +His steed the raging stream must breast! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half--Kazak_. + + + + +CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER + +Slumber sweet, my fairest baby, + Slumber calmly, sleep-- +Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber, + In thy cradle creep; +I will tell to thee a story, + Pure as dewdrop glow, +Close those two beloved eyelids-- + Lullaby, By-low! + +List! The Terek o'er its pebbles + Blusters through the vale, +On its shores the little Khirgez + Whets his murdrous blade; +Yet thy father grey in battle-- + Guards thee, child of woe, +Safely rest thee in thy cradle, + Lullaby, By-low! + +Grievous times will sure befall thee, + Danger, slaughterous fire-- +Thou shalt on a charger gallop, + Curbing at desire; +And a saddle girth all silken + Sadly I will sew, +Slumber now my wide-eyed darling, + Lullaby, By-low! + +When I see thee, my own Being, + As a Cossack true, +Must I only convoy give thee-- + "Mother dear, adieu!" +Nightly in the empty chamber + Blinding tears will flow, +Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one, + Lullaby, By-low! + +Thy return I'll wait lamenting + As the days go by, +Ardent for thee praying,--fearing + In the cards to spy. +I shall fancy thou wilt suffer, + As a stranger grow-- +Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest, + Lullaby, By-low! + +I will send a holy image + 'Gainst the foe with thee, +To it kneeling, dearest Being, + Pray with piety! +Think of me in bloody battle, + Dearest child of woe, +Slumber soft within thy cradle, + Lullaby, By-low! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE DAGGER + +I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence-- + I love the beauty of thy glitter cold, +A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war, + Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold. + +A lily hand, in parting's silent woe, + Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade; +Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewed + With sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade. + +Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul, + Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain-- +Like thine own steel within the fire's glow, + Flashed forth to me--then faded dull again. + +For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed, + In my life's night to guide me to my end; +Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever, + Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +DON'T GIVE ME THE WINE! + +Don't give me the wine! + I am drunk of my love, +With the force of my passion for you! +Don't give me the wine! + Or my tongue will betray +All the love no one dreamed hitherto; +For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast, +All the bitter hot tears that were mine, +My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest-- +I am drunk of my love,--don't give me the wine! + +You promise me roses now, if I will drink +But one drop of the wine;--if you please +Give only one breath from the rose of your lips! +And death's cup I will drain to the lees. +All passions are raging at once in my blood, +Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine. +You seem for my suffering only to wish-- +I am drunk of my love! + Don't give me the wine! + +_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_. + + + + +THE DELIBASH + +With the hostile camp in skirmish + Our men once were changing shot, +Pranced the Delibash his charger + 'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot. + +Trifle not with free-born Cossacks! + Nor too o'er foolhardy be! +Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for-- + On his pike he'll skewer thee! + +'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound, + Off thy head, at lightning speed +With his scimitar he'll sever + From thy trunk! He will indeed! + +What confusion! What a roaring! + Halt! thou devil's pack, have care! +On the pike is lanced the horseman-- + Headless stands the Cossack there! + +PUSHKIN. + +_Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur_. + + + + +TO THE DON + +Through the Steppes, see there he glances! + Silent flood glad hailed by me,-- +Thy far distant sons do proffer + Through me, greeting fond to thee! + +Every stream knows thee as brother, + Don, thou river boasted wide! +The Araxes and Euphrates + Send thee greeting as they glide. + +Fresh and strengthened for pursuing, + Scenting home within thy gleam-- +Drink again the Don'ish horses, + Flowing boundary, of thy stream! + +Faithful Don! There also greet thee + Thy true warriors bold and free-- +Let thy vineyard's foaming bubbles + In the glass be spilled to thee! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack_. + + + + +THE CAUCAS + +The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand where + Glaciers gleam, beside a precipice rock-ribbed; +An eagle that has soared from off some distant cliff, +Lawless as I, sweeps through the radiant air! +Here I see streams at their sources up-welling, +The grim avalanches unrolling and swelling! + +The soft cloudy convoys are stretched forth below, +Tattered by thronging mad torrents descending; +Beneath them the naked rocks downward are bending, +Still deeper, the wild shrubs and sparse herbage grow; +But yonder the forests stand verdant in flora +And birds are a'twitter in choiring chorus. + +Yonder, cliff-nested-are dwellings of mortals, +There pasture the lambs in sweet blossoming meadows-- +There couch the herds in the cool deepening shadows-- +There roar the Aragua's blue sparkling waters, +And lurketh the bandit safe hid in lone caverns, +Where Terek, wild sporting, is cutting the azure! + +It leaps and it howls like some ravening beast +At first sight of feeding, through grating of iron-- +It roars on the shore with a furious purring, +It licks on the pebbles with eagerest greed. +Vain struggle and rancor and hatred, alas! +'Tis enchained and subdued by the unheeding mass. + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE CLOISTER ON KASBEK + +KASBEK, thy regal canopy + High o'er all peaks revealed I see +By an eternal icy glare. +Hanging in cloudless glory ever-- +Like to an ark thy cloister there; +This world disturbing thy peace never, +Blest realm of joy remote in air! +Ah could I at thy mercy's threshold, +From durance cursed set myself free, +And in thine own etherial cloisters +Near thy Creator ever be! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +GOBLINS OP THE STEPPES + +Stormy clouds delirious straying, +Showers of whirling snowflakes white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Further speeds the sledge, and further, +Loud the sleighbell's melody, +Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming, +'Mid these snow fields now to be! + +Hasten! "That is useless, Master, +Heavier for my team their load, +And my eyes with snow o'er plastered +Can no longer see the road! +Lost all trace of our direction, +Sir, what now? The goblins draw +Us already round in circles, +Pull the sledge with evil claw! + +See! One hops with frantic gesture, +In my face to grin and hiss, +See! It goads the frenzied horses +Onward to the black abyss! +In the darkness, like a paling +One stands forth,--and now I see +Him like walking-fire sparkling-- +Then the blackness,--woe is me!" + +Stormy clouds delirious straying, +Showers of snowflakes whirling white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Sudden halt the weary horses, +Silent too the sleighbells whirr-- +Look! What crouches on the ground there? +"Wolf,--or shrub,--I know not, Sir." + +How the wind's brood rage and whimper! +Scenting, blow the triple team; +See! One hops here! Forward Driver! +How his eyes with evil gleam! +Scarce controllable the horses, +How the harness bells resound! +Look! With what a sneering grimace +Now the spirit band surround! + +In an endless long procession, +Formless, countless of their kind +Circle us in flying coveys +Like the leaves in Autumn wind. +Now in ghastly silence deathly, +Now with shrilling elfin cry-- +Is it some mad dance of bridal, +Or a death march passing by? + +Stormy clouds delirious straying +Showers of snowflakes whirling white, +And the pallid moonbeams waning-- +Sad the heavens, sad the night! +Cloudward course the evil spirits +In unceasing phantom bands, +And their moaning and bewailing +Grip my heart with icy hands! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY + +The charm and sweetness of his magic verse + Will mock the envious years for centuries! +Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns, + The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees, +And careless joy to wistful musing turns. + +PUSHKIN. + +_Jukowsky was a Russian poet_. + + + + +THE VISION + +I remember a marvellous instant, +Unto me bending down from above, +Thy radiant vision appearing +As an angel of beauty and love. +'Mid the torments of desperate sadness, +In the torture of bondage and sighs, +To me rang thy voice so beloved-- +And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes. +But the years rolled along--and life's tempests +My illusions, my youth overcame, +I forgot that sweet voice full of music-- +And thy glance like a heavenly flame. +In the covert and grief of my exile, +The days stretched unchanged in their flight, +Bereft inspiration or power, +Bereft both of love and of light. +To my soul now approaches awakening, +To me thou art come from above, +As a radiant and wonderful vision-- +As an angel of beauty and love. +As before my heart throbs with emotion, +Life looks to me worthy and bright, +And I feel inspiration and power-- +And again love and tears and the light! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +I LOVED THEE + +I loved thee; and perchance until this moment +Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! +Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal, +Nothing shall rouse again the old desire! + +I loved thee with a silent desperation-- +Now timid, now with jealousy brought low, +I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion-- +Ah may God grant another love thee so! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +A SERENADE + +I watch Inesilla + Thy window beneath, +Deep slumbers the villa + In night's dusky sheath. + +Enamoured I linger, + Close mantled, for thee-- +With sword and with guitar, + O look once on me! + +Art sleeping? Wilt wake thee + Guitar tones so light? +The argus-eyed greybeard + My swift sword shall smite. + +The ladder of ropes + Throw me fearlessly now! +Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet, + Been false to thy vow? + +I watch Inesilla + Thy window beneath, +Deep slumbers the villa + In night's dusky sheath! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +A WINTER EVENING + +Sable clouds by tempest driven, +Snowflakes whirling in the gales, +Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, +Hark--now like a child it wails! +Creeping through the rustling straw thatch, +Rattling on the mortared walls, +Like some weary wanderer knocking-- +On the lowly pane it falls. + +Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen, +Drear and lonely our retreat, +Speak a word and break the silence, +Dearest little Mother, sweet! +Has the moaning of the tempest +Closed thine eyelids wearily? +Has the spinning wheel's soft whirring +Hummed a cradle song to thee? + +Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, +Thou true-souled companion dear-- +Let us drink! Away with sadness! +Wine will fill our hearts with cheer. +Sing the song how free and careless +Birds live in a distant land-- +Sing the song of maids at morning +Meeting by the brook's clear strand! + +Sable clouds by tempest driven, +Snowflakes whirling in the gales, +Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, +Hark--now like a child it wails! +Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, +Thou true-souled companion dear, +Let us drink! Away with sadness! +Wine will fill our hearts with cheer! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE LAST FLOWER + +Rich the first flower's graces be, +But dearer far the last to me; +My spirit feels renewal sweet, +Of all my dreams hope or desire-- +The hours of parting oft inspire +More than the moments when we meet! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE COMING OF THE WINTER + +_Stanzas from "Onegin"_ + +Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer, +Than Southern Winter scarce more bland-- +Is undeniably withdrawing +On fleeting footsteps from the land. +Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens, +The light of sunbeams rarer grown-- +Already every day is shorter, +While with a smitten hollow tone +The forest drops its shadow leafage; +Upon the fields the mists lie white, +In lusty caravans the wild geese +Now to the milder South take flight; +Seasons of tedium draw near, +Before the door November drear! + +From shivering mist ascends the morning, +The bustle, of the fields declines, +The wolf walks now upon the highway, +In wolfish hunger howls and whines; +The traveller's pony scents him, snorting-- +The heedful wanderer breathless takes +His way in haste beyond the mountains! +And though no longer when day breaks +Forth from their stalls the herd begins +To drive the kine,--his noon-day horn recalls. +The peasant maiden sings and spins, +Before her crackling, flaming bright +The pine chips,--friend of Winter night. + +And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles +And spreads its silver o'er the fields, +Alas! the golden days are vanished! +Reluctant Nature mournful yields. +The stream with ice all frozen over +Gleams as some fashionable parquet, +And thronging hordes of boyish skaters +Sweep forward on its crystal way. +On her red claws despondent swimming, +The plump goose parts the water cold, +Then on the ice with caution stalking +She slips and tumbles,--ah behold! +Now the first snowflake idling down +Stars the depressing landscape brown. + +At such a season in the country, +What can a man's amusements be? +Walk? And but more of empty highway +And of deserted village see? +Or let him through the far Steppes gallop, +His horse can scarcely stand at all-- +His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold, +The rider dreading lest he fall! +So then remain within thy paling, +Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott, +Compare thy varying editions, +Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not! +As the long evenings drag away +So doth the Winter too delay. + +PUSHKIN. + +_[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of +Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw +were demanded_.] + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +Sometimes he read aloud with Olga +A latter day romance discreet, +Whose author truly painted nature, +With cunning plot, insight complete; +Oft he passed over a few pages, +Too bald or tasteless in their art-- +And coloring, began on further, +Not to disturb the maiden heart. +Again, they sat for hours together, +With but a chess board to divide; +She with her arms propped on the table, +Deep pondering, puzzled to decide-- +Till Lenski from his inward storm +Captured her castle with his pawn! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +Love condescends to every altar, +Ah when in hearts of youth it springs, +Its coming brings such glad refreshment +As May rain o'er the pasture flings! +Lifted from passion's melancholy +The life breaks forth in fairer flower, +The soul receives a new enrichment-- +Fruition sweet and full of power. +But when on later altars arid +It downward sweeps, about us flows-- +Love leaves behind such deathly traces +As Autumn tempests where it blows +To strip the woods with ruthless hand, +And turn to soggy waste the land! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +FROM "ONEGIN" + +How sad to me is thine appearing, +O Springtime, hour of love's unrest! +Within the soul what nameless languors! +What passions hid within the breast! +With what a heavy, heavy spirit +From the earth's rustic lap I feel +Again the joy of Springtide odors-- +That once could make my spirit reel! +No more for me such pleasures thrilling, +All that rejoices, that has life, +All that exults,--brings but despondence +To one past passion as past strife, +All is but prose to such as he, +Wearied unto satiety. + +Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed +That which in Autumn drooped and pined, +Now radiant in verdure springing, +Since it must of our loss remind; +As with a tortured soul we realize +In Nature's glad awakening, +That we shall never find renewal, +Who evermore are withering. +Perchance there haunts us in remembrance, +Our own most dear and lyric dream, +Another long forgotten Springtime-- +And trembling neath this pang supreme, +The heart faints for a distant country +And for a night beside the sea! + +PUSHKIN. + + + + +THE MEMORIAL + +Beyond compare the monument I have erected, +And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,-- +Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar + The Emperor Alexander hath! + +I shall not vanish wholly,--No! but young forever +My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring, +And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance + While yet one Singer lives to sing. + +My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia, +Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide, +The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me-- + The Tungoose in his reindeer hide. + +Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished, +Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed, +In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom, + And never for their pleasures blamed. + +O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever! +Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain-- +Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation, + And argument with Fools disdain! + +PUSHKIN. + +_The Alexander column, standing before the Winter Palace at St. +Petersburg, is a monolith eighty feet high; with the pedestal measuring +one hundred and fifty feet_. + + + + +TAMARA + +Where waves of the Terek are waltzing + In Dariel's wickedest pass, +There rises from bleakest of storm crags + An ancient grey towering mass. + +In this tower by mad winds assaulted, + Sat ever Tamara, the Queen-- +A heavenly angel of beauty, + With a spirit of hell's own demesne. + +Through the mist of the night her gold fires + Gleamed down through the valley below, +A welcome they threw to the pilgrim, + In their streaming and beckoning glow. + +How clear rang the voice of Tamara! + How amorous did it invite! +The heart of the stranger enticing, + Seducing with magic delight! + +The warrior was snared by her singing, + Nor noble, nor herd could withstand-- +Then noiseless her portal was opened + By eunuchs of shadowy hand. + +With pearls rare adorned and strange jewels, + Reposed on a billowy nest, +A prey to voluptuous longing, + Tamara awaited her guest. + +With passioned and thrilling embracement, + With straining of breast unto breast, +With sighing and trembling and transport-- + In lust's unrestrained, giddy zest-- + +So revelled 'mid desolate ruins, + Of Lovers,--past counting at least! +In their bridal night's wild distraction, + And in truth at their own death feast. + +For when from the peaks of the mountains + The sun tore the night's veiling soft, +There reigned anew only the silence + On turret and casement aloft. + +And only the Terek bewailing + With fury broke in on the hush, +As dashing her billows on billows + Her writhing floods onward did rush. + +A youth's form her currents are bearing, + Ah vainly they murmur and swell! +A woman, a pale and a fair one-- + Cries down from her tower "Farewell!" + +Her voice has the sound of faint weeping, + So amorous, tender and sweet-- +As if she in love's holy rapture + Did promise of meeting repeat! + +LERMONTOFF. + +[_Tamara is the Russian Lorelei. The ruins of her castle are still shown +in the pass of Darjal on the famous Georgian Road_.] + + + + +THE GIFT OF THE TEREK + +Through the rocks in wildest courses + Seethes the Terek grim of mood, +Tempest howling its bewailing, + Pearled with foam its tearful flood. + +At the mountain's feet soft streaming, + Gentler grown its murmurs be, +And with greeting full of fawning + Speaks to the Caspian Sea: + +"Hospitable part thy billows, + Give me room, oh Ocean grave! +From a distance drawing thither-- + Scarce my weary currents wave. + +Born upon the edge of Kasbek, + By the breast of clouds renewed, +Hatred have I sworn to mankind, + Who with us, the free, make feud. + +See, by rage of my own fury + Lies despoiled my Darjal home, +And as playthings for thy children, + Pebbles bearing now I come." + +Yet upon her strands a'dreaming, + Mute the grey Sea did remain, +And the Terek, silver foaming, + Spoke caressingly again. + +"Grey Sea I would serve thee only, + Have a present borne to-day-- +See, 'tis a young Carabineer + Who has fallen in the fray. + +How his coat of mail is gleaming + Silver on the billows' span! +Golden on his trappings shining + Blessing of the Alcoran! + +Menacing the one who slew him + Scowls the brow's relentless feud, +By his noble life blood crimsoned + O'er his lips his hair is glued. + +Through the half-closed eyelids glancing + Still the lust of quarrel mocks, +From his head deep underneath him + Flow the matted raven locks." + +Motionless upon her beaches + Did the grey Sea still remain, +And the Terek foaming yellow + In displeasure spoke again. + +"So then, take him as a present, + As I nothing fairer know +On this round earth,--for thee only + This rare prize I've guarded so! + +'Tis a mountain Cossack's body + Wafted 'mid my billows' dance, +See his hair,--no silk is softer-- + See his shoulder's gold expanse! + +See how o'er his red lips speechless + Now the seated eyes find rest; +Trickling yet the purple life blood + From the small wound on his breast. + +For a young and holy maiden, + Weeps lamenting, every heart! +One sole Cossack in the village, + In this mourning takes no part. + +From the confines of his country + Rode he forth with boding grey, +'Neath the dagger of the Tscherkes + He has breathed his soul away." + +And the Terek paused; behold now + In the gleaming foam flood drowned, +Silvered in the spraying billows + Dips a head with rushes crowned. + +And the hoary one's lips whisper + Haughty words of youthful fire, +And the eyes lit with love lustre + Flame with passionate desire. + +Foaming, rushing on swift longing, + Seethed he up in youthful zest-- +And the Terek flood was wedded + With him in embraces blest. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON DEPARTURE FOR THE CAUCAS + +Farewell my hateful Russian country! + People of lord and serf you are-- +Farewell, salute, bent knee and hand-kiss, + Three-masters, uniform and star! + +Soon will the Caucas now conceal me, + There I shall not discovered be +By eyes and ears of paid, false sergeants-- + Who all do hear and all do see! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO THE CLOUDS + +Clouds--ye eternal wanderers in hunting grounds of air, +High o'er the verdant Steppes, wide through the blue of heaven-- +Coursing fraternal,--say, must ye exiled as I +From the beloved North to the far South be driven? + +O tell me, were ye outlawed thus by Fate's behest? +Drives ye forth open hate, or secret grudge flee ye? +Follows ye unappeased an evil-doer's curse? +Are ye pursued by poisonous words of calumny? + +Ah no! Only from the unfruitful earth ye fly; +Free are your sufferings, your blessedness is free, +Ye know not wretchedness that holds us here in chains, +Know not the joy of home or exile's misery! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO MY COUNTRY + +With love of my own race I cling unto my country, +Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry; +The shame alone of all her blood bought glory, +Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride, +And the ancestral faith's traditions dark, +With woe have penetrated all my heart. + +And yet I love it! Why, I cannot say; +The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding, +In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing-- +The flood's high water on all sides in May. +By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness, +Through the lone wilderness and village desolate, +How hospitable shines the sole beam sparkling +To me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great, +The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled high +The wagons silent standing take their nightly rest, +On distant hills the silver birches I descry, +Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest. +Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant, +I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant, +The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again, +The window panels carved, of varied stain. + +Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested, +Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd, +Watching the villager,--young, happy, festive-- +And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO KASBEK + +With winged footsteps now I hasten +Unto the far cold North away, +Kasbek,--thou watchman of the East, +To thee, my farewell greetings say! + +Since all eternity, a turban +Snow white, thy glorious brow has veiled, +The peace sublime about thy glacier +The strife of man has ne'er assailed. + +Accept my humble supplication, +Hear thy submissive faithful son, +To starry heights lift his entreaty +To Allah's everlasting throne. + +I do implore--spice breathing coolness +Through sultry sun-glow in the vale, +A stone for rest unto the pilgrim +In whirling dust of desert gale. + +Turn, I implore, the storm's hot hatred, +The deadly thunderous lightning's course-- +In Dariel's wild pass protect me +And my distracted, trembling horse. + +Yet one prayer more my heart audacious, +Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress, +What if my native land forget me +In my sad exile's loneliness? + +Will, greeting me by name familiar, +My friend then open wide his arms? +Will e'en my brothers recognise me, +So changed by many griefs and harms? + +Perchance my foot will fall profaning +Dust of those loved in youth's far day, +The pure and noble, deeply trusted-- +Withered as Autumn leaves in May. + +O Kasbek, then with earth o'erwhelm me! +Snow o'er thy weary wanderer back, +And blow away my dust and scatter +Along thy rock-ridged clefts lone track! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE ANGEL + +Soft singing at midnight through heaven's high blue + A beautiful angel once flew; +The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng + Attended his wonderful song! + +He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coasts + Where live and exult the pure ghosts, +Their songs glad extolling Almighty's grace + Repeated from race unto race. + +In his arms he was bearing a young soul below, + To leave in this world of our woe, +The strains of his singing within her soul beat-- + A wordless song, living and sweet! + +Long languished her soul in its earthly abode, + With a heavenly longing o'erflowed, +For ne'er were those holy, pure strains of her birth, + Effaced by the songs of the earth. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +A PRAYER + +Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling, +Image miraculous and merciful--of thee +Not for my soul's health nor battles waged, beseeching, +Nor yet with thanks or penitence o'erwhelming me! + +Not for myself,--my heart with guilt o'erflowing-- +Who in my home land e'er a stranger has remained, +No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing, +That thou protect her innocence unstained! + +Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her! +Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side, +A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil, +A spirit where together peace and hope abide. + +Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending, +Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night-- +From out thy highest heaven, thy fairest angel sending +The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE SAIL + +A single sail is bleaching brightly + Upon the waves caressing bland, +What seeks it in a stranger country? + Why did it leave its native strand? +When winds pipe high, load roar the billows + And with a crashing bends the mast, +It does not shun its luckless fortune, + Nor haste to port before the blast. +To-day the sea is clear as azure, + The sun shines gaily, faint the wind-- +But it revolting, looks for tempest, + And dreams in storms its peace to find! + +LERMONTOFF. + +_Lermontoff, being reproached by the critics of his time for imitation +of Byron in this poem, defended himself by the following, "I am not +Byron!"_ + + + + +I AM NOT BYRON + +I am not Byron--yet I am +One fore-elected, yet one more +Unknown, world-hunted wanderer, +A Russian in my mood and mind. + +Scant from my seed the corn was ripe, +My mouth spoke young, was early hushed; +In depths of my own soul, the wreck +Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk. + +Who shall the counsels of the sea, +Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall +Read clear my spirit and my soul? +Unless it be a Poet--no man! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +LIKE AN EVIL SPIRIT + +Like an evil spirit hast thou + Shocked my heart from out its rest, +If thou'lt take it quite away now-- + Thou wilt win my healing blest! + +My heart thy temple evermore! + Thy face,--the altar's Godhead sign! +Not heaven's grace,--thy smiles, restore, + Grant absolution, joy divine! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +TO A.C.S. + +Afar--I fain, so much would tell thee! +List to thee o'er and o'er when near; +Yet passioned glances thou dost silence-- +My words bind to my lips in fear. +How, by mere homely speaking, can I +E'en hope to captivate thine ears? +I swear it would be food for laughter-- +If it were not more fit for tears! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +A SONG + +Dry leaf trembling on the branches + Before the blast, +Poor heart quaking in the bosom + For woe thou hast; +Ah what matter if the wind then, + Withered leaf from blooming linden +Should scatter wide? + Would for this the twig or branches + Have wailing sighed? +And should the lad his fate upbraid, + Although he ignominious fade-- +And in an alien country die? + Will for him the beauteous maid + Complaining cry? + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +FROM "DEMON" + +Sailless and without a rudder, + On the ocean of the air-- +Float the choirs of stars harmonious, + 'Mid the mists eternal there; +Fleecy flocks of clouds elusive + Drift across immensity, +Leaving ne'er a track behind them, + Following their destiny. +Hour of parting, hour of meeting + They know not,--nor grief, nor rest-- +Theirs no longing for the future, + Theirs no sorrow for the past. +By thy day of anguish broken, + Think of them and calm thy woe-- +Be indifferent as they are + To the pangs of earth below! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE PRAYER + +When faints the heart for sorrow, + In life's hard, darkened hour, +My spirit breathes a wondrous prayer + Full of love's inward power. + +There is a might inspiring + Each consecrated word, +That speaks the inconceivable + And holy will of God. + +The heavy load slips from my heart-- + Oppressing doubt takes flight, +The soul believes, the tears break forth-- + And all is light, so light! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE PALM BRANCH OF PALESTINE + +Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me, + In that far distant home-land fair, +Wast rooted in the mountain gravel + Or sprung from some vale garden rare? + +Once o'er the Jordan's silver billows + Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun? +Have the grim gales 'neath starry heavens + Swept over thee from Lebanon? + +And was a trembling prayer soft whispered, + A father's song sung over thee-- +When from the parent stem dis-severed + By some poor aborigine? + +And is the palm tree ever standing, + Amid the fierce glare beating down, +The pilgrim in the desert luring + To shelter 'neath her shadow crown? + +Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiver +In unappeased parting pain, +The branch conceals a homesick longing + For desert wilderness again? + +Was it a pilgrim who first brought thee + To the cold North, with pious hand? +Who mused upon his home in sadness, + And dost thou bear his tear's hot brand? + +Was it Jehovah's favored warrior, + His gleaming head transfigured bright, +For God and man true-sworn, devoted + Unto the victory of light? + +Before the wonder-working image + Thou stand'st as heaven's defence divine, +O branch from out that holy country, + The sanctuary's shield and sign! + +It darkens, golden lamp light splendors + Enveil the cross, the sacred shrine-- +The peace of God is wafted o'er us + From thee, oh branch of Palestine! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +THE DISPUTE + +Once 'mid group of native mountains + Hot dispute arose, +Elbrus, angry, did with Kasbek + Argument propose. +"Now beware!" the hoary Elbrus, + Warning did exclaim-- +"To enslave thee and enthrall thee + Is man's evil aim! +Smoking huts he will be building + On thy mountain side, +Loudly through thy clefts resounding + Ring his hatchet wide! +The swift swinging iron shovel + Breast of stone will part, +Of thy bronze and stone will rob thee-- + Pierce thee to the heart. +Caravans, e'en now, are passing + Through thy rocks afar, +Where before the fogs were swimming-- + And the Eagle Tsar. +Ah, mankind is bold and fearless! + Dreads no lifted hand, +Guard thee! populous and mighty + Is the morning land!" +"Threatens me the East?" then queried + Kasbek with disdain, +"There eight centuries already + Sleeping, man has lain. +See, in shadow the Grusine + Gloats in lustful greed, +On his many coloured raiment + Glints the winey bead! +Drugged with fumes of his nargileh, + Dreams the Mussulman-- +By the fountains on his divan + Slumbers Teheran. +See! Jerusalem is lying + At his feet o'erthrown-- +Deathly dumb and lifeless staring + As an earthly tomb. +And beyond the Nile is washing + O'er the burning steps +Of the Kingly mausoleums, + Yellow, shadowless. +In his tent, the hunt forgotten-- + Now the Bedouin lies, +Sings the old ancestral legends, + Scans the starry skies. +See! far as the eye can venture, + All sleeps as before-- +No, the threat of dreaming Orient + Frights me nevermore!" +"Laugh thou not too early, Kasbek," + Elbrus did persist-- +"Look! What vast mass is it turning + Northward, through the mist?" +Secretly the heart of Kasbek + Faltered,--as amazed, +Silent and with dark foreboding + To the North he gazed: +Full of woe stared in the distance; + What a thronging swarm! +Hark! there rings the clash of weapons! + Battle-cry alarm! +From the Don unto the Ural + What a human sea! +Regiments that wave and glitter + Past all counting be! +Feathers white like sedge of ocean, + Waving in a gust-- +Many coloured Uhlans storming + Through the blowing dust. +The imperial battalions + Densely packed proceed, +Trumpets flaring, banners flying + In the victor's lead. +Batteries with brasses rattling + Conquering advance, +With their blood-red splendor flashing + Cannon matches glance. +And a battle-proved commander + Leads the army there-- +From whose eyes the lightning flashes, + 'Neath his snowy hair. +Swells the host until as Griesbach's + Billows roaring loud, +From the Eastward nears the army + As a thunder cloud. +Kasbek peered with sinister boding + Through the clouds,--would fain +Count his enemies approaching-- + Found it was in vain: +Threw one glance unto the mountains-- + Anguished, overcome, +O'er his brow drew close the vapours, + Was forever dumb. + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +HEAVEN AND THE STARS + +Brilliant heavens of evening, + Distant stars clearly shining, + Bright as the rapture of childhood, +O why dare I send you nevermore greeting-- +Stars, who are shining as clear as my joy? + What is thy sorrow? + Mortals make question. + This is my sorrow; +The heavens and the stars are--heaven and stars ever, +I am alas! but a perishing man! + Forever mortal + Envies his neighbor; + I envy rather +Ye in your freedom, ye stars ever radiant, +And only would be in your places! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON NAPOLEON'S DEATH + +Cold hears thy soul the praise or cursing of posterity. +Quit of the human race, thou man of destiny! +They only could o'erthrow, who thee did elevate-- +Forever thus remains thy greatness great! + +LERMONTOFF. + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF PUSHKIN + +He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour, +A sacrifice to slander's lust; +The haughty Poet's head, the noblest, +Bowed on his wounded breast in dust. +No longer could his free soul suffer +The vulgar world's low infamy; +He rose against the world's opinion, +And as a hero, lone fell he. +He fell! To what avail the sobbing-- +The useless choir of tears and praise? +Wretched the stammering excuses! +The Fates have spoke,--no power allays! +Have ye not at all times together +His sacred genius baited sore, +The silent fury fanned to flaming, +Delighted in your work before? +O be triumphant! Earthly torment +The Poet soul did fully bear, +Extinguished are the lights inspired, +The laurel crown lies leafless there! +The murderer contemptuous gazing +Did stedfastly his weapon aim, +No swifter beat his heart, Assassin! +Nor shook his lifted hand for shame. +No wonder; from a distance came he +As an adventurer unknown, +For worthy title, star of order-- +Stood but his mad desire alone. +Sneering and self-complacent mocked he +The rights and customs of our land, +He could not understand our glory, +Against which he has raised his hand. + +"Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung, +The Singer even as the song he sung; +Who of a hot, heroic mood, +In death disgraceful shed his blood!"[1] + +Why did he leave his home life tranquil, +To seek the envious market place, +Where each free flame is suffocated, +Expose him to the assassin base? +The human breed, who had known better +Since earliest years of youth, than he-- +Why did he trust the false pretending +Of malice and hypocrisy? +Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him, +Gave him a martyr's crown instead, +And now the cruel thorns have pierced him +E'en to the blood of his proud head! +His last days were for him envenomed-- +Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved, +He died revenge a'thirst, accusing +That every hope his heart deceived! + +Mute evermore the magic echoes, +That ne'er shall wonders more reveal, +The Poet's home is dark and narrow-- +Upon the Singer's lips a seal. + +But ye, sons insolent and shameless-- +Defamers, faithless fathers, ye! +Who trod the pure soul of another +Beneath your feet, who zealously +Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling +For fame and freedom, hatred steeled! +Well may you sneer at truth and justice, +The law provides you screen and shield, +Only a higher law shall sentence! +A mighty Judge beyond assail +Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers, +The Highest Judge who does not fail! +So then calumniate with brazen courage, +Your hatred's fury nought restrains-- +Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for +One drop within the Poet's pure veins. + +LERMONTOFF. +[1] _These four lines are from Pushkin's own romantic poem, "Onegin."_ + + + + +RUSSIA, O MY RUSSIA, HAIL! + +Russia, O my Russia, hail! +Steeds as tempests flying, +Howling of the distant wolves, +Eagles high, shrill crying! +Hail, my Russia, hail! Hail high! +Hail thy green forests proud, +Hail thy silvery nightingales, +Hail Steppes and wind and cloud! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +THE WOLVES + +When the church-village slumbers + And the last songs are sung, +When the grey mist arising, + Is o'er the marshes hung, +'Tis then the woods forsaking, +Their way cross country taking, +Nine howling wolves come hungering for food. + +Behind the first,--the grey one,-- + Trot seven more of black, +Close on their hoary leader; + As rearguard of the pack +The red wolf limps, all bloody, +His paws with gore still ruddy +As after his companions grim he pants. + +When through the village lurking + Nought gives them check or fright, +No watch dog dares to bellow, + The peasant ghastly white, +His breath can scarce be taking, +His limbs withhold from shaking-- +While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips! + +About the church they circle + And softly slink away +To prowl about the priest's farm, + Then of a sudden they +Are round the drink shop turning, +Fain some bad word be learning-- +From peasants drinking noisily within. + +With fully thirteen bullets + Thy weapon must be armed, +And with a wad of goat's hair; + Then thou wilt fight unharmed. +Fire calmly,--and before all +Will the leader, the grey, fall, +The rest will surely follow one by one. + +When the cock wakes the village + From out its morning dream, +Thou wilt behold the corpses-- + Nine she-wolves by the stream! +On the right lies the grey one, +To left in frost the lame one-- +All bloody,--God pardon us sinners! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +AUTUMN + +Autumn 'tis! Our garden stands + Flowerless and bare, +Dizzy whirling yellow leaves + Fill the wind swept air. +Yet the distant mountain ash + In the vale below, +With our favorite berries red + Now begins to glow. +While with rapture and with pain + Throbbing in my breast, +Pressing hot thy hands in mine, + Silent, unexpressed-- +Fondly gazing in thine eyes, + Through my tears I see-- +That I can never tell thee + How dear thou art to me! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY + +Burnt out is now my misery-- + love's yearning +No more unspeakably torments my heart, +Yet bearable alone through thee, my being-- +All thou art not is idle, stale and dying, +Colourless, withered, dead,--save where thou art! + +If I no more through false suspicion trouble +Thy happiness,--nor more my blood inflames my veins, +It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover, +But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover +Always with soul of ardour true remains. + +So in their rapid fury mountain torrents +That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep, +Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot-- +Here in the vale are bound in the old currents, +To stream in future calm and clear and deep! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE + +In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea! + It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow; + O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrow +I swear I am no longer true to thee! + +The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy, + From far away, with joy, to the beloved shore; + And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more, +Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee! + +TOLSTOY. + + + + +SWANS + +White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me! +Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew-- +From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew, +And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep, +And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep. +O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +TO SLEEP + +When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves, +Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves-- +Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep, +When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep; +When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings, +The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,-- +Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,--o'er grown +By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn. +And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown-- +Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound, +And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast-- +The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest. +A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds, +Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads, +Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses +And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER + +Clear on the night of my spirit, +To me shines the glance of a star, +It is she! My heart's little maiden! +From her glance gleams something afar, +Of victory, deathless, eternal-- +Something that musing, misgiving, +Pierces the essence of being! + +It cannot be! It cannot be! +She lives--soon she will waken; straightway +Will ope her pretty eyes,--glad she +Will prattle merry, laughing gay! +And when in tears beholding me-- +Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling, +"Papa--it is but playing--See! +I live,--yes! Leave off mourning!" + But cold and mute she lies, alas! + And motionless. + +Now in her coffin she lies, +Silent amid scented flowers-- +Ah what mute spirits in white +O'er her corpse circle and hover? +Are they the visions of bliss? +Are they all spirits of hope? +That during life lured her on-- + +Those to whom secretly oft +She had entrusted her soul? +They that accompanied her e'er, +Faithful in forest and field? +Silent they circle my child, +In tearful anguish embraced-- +Yet little actress she lies, +Smiling, closed lashes beneath; +See, she is laughing in truth-- +thou most merciless Death! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +MOTHER AND CHILD + +"Mother, why weepest thou ever + For my little sister fair? +She is now in heaven's kingdom-- + Ah, it must be wondrous there!" + +"Yes, she is in heaven's glory, + But in heaven's own land, alas! +There are no butterflies nor flowers-- + Nor meadows of velvet grass!" + +"But mother, God's blessed angels + There, rejoicing sing to Him!" +Forth from the sunset's rosy fires + Now cometh the midnight dim. + +Ah, the mother wants her baby-- + That she watched from the window wide, +When 'mid butterflies and blossoms + She played in the meadow's pride! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +AN EASTER GREETING + +The lark at sunrise trills it high-- +The greeting Christ is risen! +And through the wood the black-bird pipes +The greeting Christ is risen! +Beneath the eaves the swallows cry +The greeting Christ is risen! +Throughout the world man's heart proclaims +The greeting Christ is risen! +And echo answers from the grave +In truth, yes, He is risen! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +AT EASTER + +Drawing near the Easter Sunday +With the Easter-greeting kiss; +When I come, remember Dora-- +Not alone we suffer this! +Then, as were it for the first time-- +Kiss thou me and I kiss thee; +Thou with modest eyelids downcast, +I with but ill stifled glee! + +MAIKOW. + +_The religious custom of the Easter-greeting kiss prevails throughout +Russia_. + + + + +O MOUNTAINS OF MY NATIVE COUNTRY! + +"O mountains of my native country! O valleys of my home! +On you gleam Winter's snowflakes white and twinkle lambs of Summer-- +On you the rosy sunlight glows, you know no deathly shudder!" + +So, 'neath the earth did wistful yearn three homesick youths in Hades, +Who fain from out that under world to worlds above would hasten. + The first declared "We'll go in Spring!" The second "No, in Summer!" +"No," cried the third, "at harvesting, in time the grapes to gather!" +A listening maiden fair, o'erheard with heart resistless throbbing; +Upon her breast her arms she crossed and begged of them imploring-- + "O take me to the upper world!" Alone the youths made answer, +"That cannot be, you fairest maid, that you with us be taken! +Your heels would clatter as you speed, your dress would rustle silken, +Your rattling ornaments warn death to hear us all escaping." + +"My rustling dress I will unlace,--my ornaments forsaking, +Barefooted up the stairway steep will mute and cautious follow! +Ah, but too gladly would I gaze again on earthly living! +I fain my mother would console, sad for her daughter grieving-- +would my brothers twain behold, who for their sister sorrow!" + "O do not yearn, thou wretched child, for those thou lovest, ever! +Thy brothers in the village street now joyful lead the wrestling-- +And with the neighbors on the street thy mother gossips zestful!" + +MAIKOW. + + + + +THE AEOLIAN HARP + +The land lies parched in sun,--to heaven the air is still, +Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings' lost thrill; +Aeolian harps our native singers are,--and numb +Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow, +Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb +Their breath be suffocated in this sultry glow! +O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging, +Stormed through our native land,--Spirit with freedom rife! +How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringing +To greet the Godly power that promises new life! + +MAIKOW. + + + + +YE SONGS OF MINE! + +Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows + A living witness ye; +Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing + Tempestuous and free, +The hard heart of humanity assailing + As doth her cliffs the sea! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +IN WAR + +Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled, + By each new victim of the combat torn-- +Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity, + Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn. +Alas! the wife will find a consolation. + The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn. + +But somewhere is the one soul that remembers-- + That will remember unto death's dark shore, +Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother + Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore. +One soul there is that like the weeping willow + Can never raise its drooping branches more. + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +THE SONGS OF SIBERIAN EXILES + +We stand unbroken in our places, +Our shovels dare to take no rest, +For not in vain his golden treasure +God buried deep in earth's dark breast. + +Then shovel on and do not falter, +Humble and hopeful, clear we see-- +When Russia has grown rich and mighty, +Our grandchildren will grateful be! + + * * * * * + +Though streams the sweat in rivers downward, +Our arms from shoveling grown weak, +Our bodies frozen to an ice crust +While we new strength in slumber seek-- + +Sweating or freezing, we will bear it! +Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand, +For each stone is of use to Russia, +And each is given by our own hand! + +NEKRASSOW. + +_Written to a band of political exiles including some of the highest +aristocracy_. + + + + +FREEDOM + +Oft through my native land I roved before, +But never such a cheerful spirit bore. + +When on its mother's breast a child I spy-- +Hope in my inmost heart doth secret cry, + +"Boy, thou art born within a favoring time, +Thine eyes shall glad escape old sights of crime. + +Free as a child, thou can'st prove all and be +The forger sole of thine own destiny. + +Peasant remain,--as to thy father given-- +Or like the eagle swing thyself to heaven!" + +Castles in air I build! Man's spirit opes +To many ways to frustrate all my hopes. + +Though serfdom's sad conditions left behind, +Yet there be countless snares of varied kind!-- + +Well! Although the people soon may rend thee, +Let me, oh Freedom, a welcome send thee! + +NEKRASSOW. + +_Written shortly after the freeing of the serfs_. + + + + +A FAREWELL + +Farewell! Forget the days of trial, +Of grudge, ill humor, misery-- +Tempests of heart and floods of weeping, +And the revengeful jealousy. +Ah, but the days whereon the sun rose +To light love's wonder, and begot +In us the power of aspiration,-- +bless them and forget them not! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +THE LOVE LETTER + +Letter of love so strangely thrilling +With all your countless wonder yet, +Though Time our heart's hot fires have mastered, +Bringing a pang of pained regret! +The while your blest receiver holds you, +His banished passions still rebel, +No longer reason sacrifices +His sentiment,--so then farewell! +Destroyed be this love-token treasured! +For if 'tis read when time has flown, +Deep in the buried soul 'twill waken +The torment vanished days have known. +At first but a light scorn arousing +For silly childishness,--at last +With fiery yearning overwhelming, +And jealousy for all the past. + +O Thou, from whom a myriad letters +Speak with the breath of love to me, +Though my gaze rest on thee austerely, +Yet, yet,--I cannot part with thee! +Time has revealed with bitter clearness +How little thou with truth wert blessed, +How like a child my own behaviour-- +Yet, dear to me I still must save +This flower scentless, without colour, +From off my manhood's early grave! + +NEKRASSOW. + + + + +WHAT THE SLEEPLESS GRANDAM THINKS + +All through the cold night, beating wings shadowy + Sweep o'er the church-village poor,-- +Only one Grandam a hundred years hoary, + Findeth her slumber no more. + + +Harkens, if cocks to the dawn be not crowing, + Rolls on her oven and weeps, +Sees all her past rising up to confront her-- + O'er her soul shameful it creeps! + +"Woe to me sinner old! Woe! Once I cheated-- + When from the church door I ran, +And in the depths of the forest strayed hidden + With my beloved Ivan. + +"Woe to me! Burning in hell's leaping fires + Surely will soon be my soul! +I took a pair of eggs once at a neighbor's-- + Out from her hen--yes, I stole! + +"Once at the harvest at home I did linger-- + Swore I was deadly sick,--when +Taking my part in the drunken carousals + Saturday night with the men! + +"Light was I ever with soldiers! Yet cursing + God's name, when from me at last,-- +My own son they took for a soldier! + Even drank cream on a fast. + +"Woe to me sinner! Woe to me wretched one! + Woe! My heart broken will be! +Holy Madonna, have pity, have mercy! + Into court go not with me!" + +NEKRASSOW. + +_The stoves of the peasants are built so that they can sleep on top of +them in the extreme cold of Winter_. + + + + +TO RUSSIA + +'Neath a giant tent +Of the heavens blue, +Stretch the verdant Steppes; +Range beyond the view. + +On the distant rim +Lift the outlines proud, +Of their mountain walls +To the drifting cloud. + +Through the Steppes there rolls +Stream on stream to sea, +Wide meandering, +Straying far and free. + +Do I Southward gaze-- +Like the ocean there, +Ripening fields of grain +Wave and ripple fair. + +Softest velvet sod +Decks the meadow floor, +In the vineyards green +Swells the grape once more. + +Do I Northward turn-- +O'er the waste lands lone, +Soft as eider down +Are the snowflakes blown. + +And his azure waves +High the ocean lifts, +On his cold blue breast +Now an iceberg drifts. + +And as leaping flame +Burn the Northern lights, +On the darkness gleam +Through the silent nights. + +Even so art thou, +Russian realm, become,-- +Thou my native land, +Shield of Christendom! + +Far away hast thou, +Throughout lands untold, +In thy glory fair, +Russia, been enrolled! + +Art thou not in space +E'en o'er well supplied? +Where a spirit bold +Freely wanders wide! + +Hast thou not alway +Gold and grain rich stored? +For thy friend a feast? +For thy foe a sword? + +Guards and shields thee not +With a sacred might, +Holy altar forms, +Deeds of glory bright? + +To whom hast thou e'er +Bent an humble knee? +Or before whom bowed +Seeking charity? + +In the Kurgan deep, +Met in open fight, +Thou hast e'en subdued +The fierce Tartar's might. + +Fought to bloody death +The Lithuanian horde, +The defiant Pole +Scattered with a sword. + +And how long ago, +Black clouds, rising out +Of the distant West, +Compassed thee about? + +'Neath the lightning flash +Sank the woods away, +Trembled the earth's breast, +Pierced with dismay. + +And the inky smoke +Ruinous did rise +From the village burnt +To the cloudy skies. + +Loudly to the fight +Then the Tsar did call-- +Russia swift replied, +Coming one and all. + +Women, children came-- +Men from age to youth, +Gave their evil guest +Bloody feast in truth! + +And in lonely fields +Under ice and snow, +To his endless sleep +Laid the victim low. + +Where the snowstorms wild +Raised o'er him a tomb, +While the North wind sang +Dirges in the gloom. + +Town and village too +Over all our land, +Now like ant hills swarm +With this Christian band. + +Now from distant shores +O'er the cruel sea, +Ship on ship draws near +Homage paying thee. + +Blooming are thy fields, +Soft thy forests sigh, +Hid in earth's dark breast +Golden treasures lie. + +And to East and West, +To the South and North-- +Flies thy louder fame +Through the wide world forth! + +Holy Russia, thou +Dost deserve to be +"Mother" called by all, +In our love to thee! + +For thy glory fair +We should face the foe, +And thy freedom guarding +Glad our lives bestow! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT + +To seven kopek the heir, + Nor house nor land have I-- +Live I--hey! I live then! + Die I--hey! I die! + +In many realms the Fool + Can sleep no wink for care, +While yet the spendthrift snores + When dawns the morning fair. + +Free as the wind he blows, + Door nor gate to balk him, +Riches, hey! Now give place! + Poverty goes walking! + +Before me bends the rye + When through the fields I stray +And glad the forest hears + My pipe and song alway. + +If one must bitter weep-- + No man will see his tears, +If sadly bowed his head-- + None save the partridge jeers. + +If weary one, or not, + What matters anything? +Let him toss back his locks + And playful laugh and sing! + +And if one die,--the grave + Will warm his hands and feet! +Dost to my song respond? + Nay? Then it is complete. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD + +The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould.... +O Life,--so o'erflowing with sorrows untold, +My life, so homeless and lonely and weary, +Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary-- +Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky, +And as a fire of the field wilt thou die! +Die then--no sad falling tear will recall thee, +Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee, +Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted-- +Only one more from humanity parted; +One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing-- +One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing! + +Hark! What a silvery music is ringing! +Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing! +See on ethereal azure waves swinging, +Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging! +Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears, +Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +GOSSIP + +Though blameless thy living + As Anchorite's fate, +Yet Gossip will find thee + Or early or late. + +Through keyhole he enters + And stands at thy side, +Doors of wood nor of stone + Against him provide. + +He pulls the alarm bell + At slightest excuse-- +And down to thy grave + Will pursue with abuse. + +Self defence nothing boots thee, + Thy flight he will worst-- +To earth he will tread thee, + O Gossip be cursed! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +IN A PEASANT HUT + +Sultry dampness--pine chips smoking, +Off-scourings a span length, +In the corners webs of spiders, +Smut on dish and bench. + +Sooty black the bare wall, crock stained, +Water--dry hard bread; +Groanings, coughings, children's whimper, +Wretched bitter need! + +And a beggar's death for years of +Harshest drudgery-- +Learn to put your trust in God here, +And to patient be. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +WINTER NIGHT IN THE VILLAGE + +O'er the church roof wanders + Mute and calm the moon, +Blue upon the snowdrifts + Sparkling silent down. + +By the small pond dreaming, + Stands the church a'gleam-- +With its gold cross twinkling + As a taper's beam. + +Peaceful in the village + Darkness reigns and sleep, +Every hut is standing + Snowed in window deep. + +Out upon the highway + Hushed and empty all, +Now the howling watch dogs + Even, silent fall. + +After their day's labor + Young and old are pressed +Weak and worn, on their hard + Narrow place of rest. + +In one cottage only + Shines a lamplight, where +A sick old hoary-head + Groans in soul-despair. + +Death is near,--and of her + Grandchildren thinks she, +Smitten sore the orphans + Harvest time will be. + +Ah the poor, poor children! + Now so young for strife, +All untried and helpless + In the woe of life! + +Among stranger people + Older they will grow-- +Evil hearts will lure them + Evil ways to go. + +With disgrace too early + They will make a bond, +Shamed and God forsaken + Sink unto the ground. + +Dear God, thyself take them, + Thy forsaken poor-- +Staff and light be to them + Thyself evermore! + +And the sacred lamplight + Calm and silent strays; +On the holy pictures + Fall its trembling rays; + +O'er the aged features, + O'er the dying form, +O'er the two small children + On the stove bench warm. + +Sudden, through the stillness + Rings a merry cry-- +And his jingling troika + Drives a reveller by! + +Dies in silent distance + Sleighbell clangor strong, +And the careless, merry, + Sorrow-troubling song. + +NIKITIN. + + + + +THE BIRCH TREE + +From bald and sun-parched earth it rises, + One lonely birch, high towering-- +Upon its withered crown wide spreading, + Green leafage never more will sing. + +Up to the rim of the horizon + Where veiling mists all soft enclose, +Runneth the blossoming of flowers, + The Steppe's green ocean waving flows. + +In green enchantment stands the Kurgan, + Where evening dampness doth enfold, +The night descends with sleep and coolness, + The morning sunbeams touch with gold. + +Yet loveless, helpless stands the birch tree-- + In heaven's grey, musing sad to view, +And from its branches fall like tear-drops + The gleaming pearls of morning dew. + +Scattered, alas! her tender leaflets, + In howling storms,--so far, so wide! +Ne'er will the birch, to greet the Springtide, + Be fresh adorned in leafy pride! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +NORTH AND SOUTH + +Knowest thou the land of fragrance ardent glowing? +Where night sublimely sparkles on the flowing +Of the sea? Murmuring in starlight gleam-- +Weaving about the heart a wonder dream? +Refulgent in the silvering moonbeams white, +In soft half darkness, gardens slumbering light; +Only the fountain's iridescent foam +Upon the grass falls splashing down-- +And images of Gods with lips of silence +Sunk in deep musing gaze on every side-- +While, eloquent of fallen majesty, +Ruins entwined with ivy tendrils be? +Soft pictured on the valley's verdant meadows +Dark cypress trees reflect their slender shadows; +Earth's bosom blooming in fecundity-- +And freedom here man's joyful destiny. + +Yet more than tropic's soft abundance thralling, +My stormy North-land wilderness is calling! +Her snowflake flocks, her gleaming midnight frosts, +The glory of grim forests on her coasts, +Green tinted Steppes with distant bluish rim-- +The trooping clouds in heaven's spaces dim. +Unto the heart how the familiar cries! +The village mean that in the valley lies, +The wealthy cities' towering majesty, +The empty snow-fields' endless boundary,-- +The changeful moods that all unbridled throng; +Spirit of Russia and of Russian song! +With joy now gushing forth,--with pain now ringing-- +Unto the hearer's heart resistless singing. + +Thou fairest picture! my breast with rapture sighs, +My spirits free, victorious arise! +A song breaks forth to Russia's praise and glory, +And tears of joy, the while I muse, are flowing. +And jubilant the kindling heart must cry-- +Hail Russia, Hail! Thy loyal son am I! + +NIKITIN. + + + + +HUNGER + +Hark! Who knocks with bony fingers + On the hut's small window latch? +Hark! Who pulls away the stubble + Rustling, from the roofing thatch? + +From the fields it is not Vintage, + Drunk and weary wavers home-- +'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy, + As a nightmare dread become. + +All subduing, all destroying, + In his ragged garment poor, +Drags he,--on his crutches limping-- + Noiseless reeling through the door. + +Like the usurer hard hearted, + For his last kopek in quest, +Coffer, cupboard both he opens, + Breaks the lock of case and chest. + +Lordly rules he, late and early-- + In the granary; when gone +Every kernel of provision, + The last cattle he will pawn. + +From the land unto the cellar, + Clean the peasant's hut he keeps, +With a coarse and clumsy besom + Every tiny crumb he sweeps. + +On the village highway also + Works and wins he over all, +From the threshing floor to stable-- + From the sheepfold to the stall. + +His approaching, sorrow follows-- + On his coming, follows need, +On his greeting, follows sickness, + On his hand-shake Death succeeds! + +So he seeks in all directions, + East and West and South and North-- +And in empty field embraces + Thankfully his friend the Frost! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +FADED THE FOOTSTEP OF SPRING FROM OUR GARDEN + +Faded the footstep of Spring from our garden, + Sighing the Autumn wind vanishing goes, +Behold now, how close to us dreams are approaching-- + Love, it is time for repose! + +List, how the leafage in raindrops all tearful + Trembles and wails for a sorry defeat,-- +All that was ours, that we once proudly boasted, + All, was a glittering cheat. + +Dark as a funeral pall hanging over, + Fluttering clouds in their mockery close; +Sighing within us is silenced our singing-- + Love, it is time for repose. + +Deceitful from heaven's fair emerald rainbow, + Soft borrowed glamour of moonbeams doth woo; +Since even you to my faith were disloyal, + Love, my false Springtime were you! + +Soon will the sunbeams last radiant shining + Trackless be hurled where the Autumn wind blows, +Slumber enmeshes my soul and the darkness-- + Love, it is time for repose! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +THE BEGGAR + +There stood a beggar asking alms + By the cathedral gate, +His face bore torture marks of life-- + Pale, tired, blind--like fate. + +Thin, tired, pale and blind he begged + A crust of bread alone, +And some one pausing, placed within + His outstretched hand--a stone. + +And even so I asked your love, + I brought my dreams, my life--the while +Unto my passion you replied + Only with your cold smile! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +WITH ROSES + +Darling, accept my bunch of perfumed roses;-- + Because in royal beauty and in freshness sweet +They dared to rival you,--I cut them down and bound + The criminals and brought them to your feet. + +_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_. + + + + +THE STARS + +With joy in your heart and a smile on your lips + You admired the soft Southern night, +And do you know when your beautiful eyes + Were remarked, all the stars at the sight +Were put out and turned faint in the skies? + +This morning they brought their complaint to the sun-- + "In ether a star quite unknown! +If to-night this same comet shall shine + Whose radiance extinguished our own, +We must all, our old splendor resign!" + +And sadly the sun made them answer,--"Alas! + Before her, I am pale at high noon;-- +See, to-day all is rainy and cold, + 'Tis the trace of defeat seen so soon, +'Tis the trace of eclipse you behold!" + + * * * * * + +O happy the being whose life from afar + Shall be lighted by such a lode star! + +_From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine_. + + + + +WHISPERS AND THE TIMID BREATHING + +Whispers and the timid breathing, + Nightingale's long trill, +Silver moonlight and the rocking + Of the dreaming rill; +Nightly light and nightly shadow, + Shadow's endless lace-- +Neath the moon's enchanted changes + The Beloved's face. +Blinking stars as flash of amber, + Snowy clouds on-rush, +Tears and happiness and kisses-- + And the dawn's red blush! + +FROM "FETE CHENCHINE." + +_Fete Chenchine, so-called, has no rival in impressionistic effects. The +above without a verb is a good instance of his peculiar caprice_. + + + + +THE TALES OF THE STARS + +The stars of beauty, the stars of purity, + Have whispered their wonderful tales to the flowers! +The satiny petals have smiled as they heard, + And trembled the emerald leaves 'mid their bowers. +But infatuate flowers deep drunken of dew + Repeated these tales to the light swaying breeze-- +Rebellious winds listening swift caught them up + And sang them o'er earth, o'er the mountains and seas! +Now, as the earth under Springtime's caresses: + With her verdant tissue is covered once more, +All my madly passionate soul overflows + With dreams of the stars and their radiant lore! +And throughout these days of my sorrow and toil, + Through these nights of my loneliness, darkness and rain-- +Stars wondrous and radiant, I give back to you, + Your ethereal fancies again! + +FOFANOW. + + + + +ONE DEAREST PAIR OF EYES I LOVE + +One dearest pair of eyes I love! + Entranced my heart beneath their spell-- +Clearer than clearest ray they are, + But where they are--I will not tell! + +Through silk of wondrous lashes soft, + Their burning beams are flashing bright, +Upon my knees, a slave I kneel-- + Before those miracles of light. + +The storm is growing in my soul, + Tempest of pain and happiness-- +I love one dearest pair of eyes, + But whose they are--I'll not confess! + +GIPSY SONG. + + + + +A GIPSY SONG + +Pile of embers in the darkness, + Sparks expire as they fly-- +Night conceals us from the passing, + On the bridge we'll say good-by! + +At the parting, shawl of crimson + Cross my shoulders thou shalt lace, +At an end the days swift passing, + Met within this shaded place. + +In the morning, with first splendour, + All my life compelled to rove-- +I shall leave with other gipsies + Seeking happiness and love. + +How does fate foretell my future? + Who, to-morrow by my side, +O'er my heart will loose with kisses + Knots by thy dear hand fast tied? + +Flash of embers in the darkness, + Sparks expire as they fly-- +Night conceals us from the passing, + On the bridge we'll kiss good-by! + +POLONSKY. + + + + +AT LAST + +No word,--not e'en a sigh, my darling! + Together now the silence keeping; +In truth as o'er some grave stone leaning + The silent willows low are weeping, +And drooping o'er it so are reading-- + I read in thy tired heart at last, +That days of happiness existed, + And that this happiness is past. + +PLESTCHEEFF. + + + + +BY AN OPEN WINDOW + +So sultry is the hour I throw the casement wide, + Fall on my knees beside it in the gloom, +And cowering before me lies the balmy night, + Wafted aloft the breath of lilac bloom. +The nightingale her plaint from a near thicket sobs, + I listen to the singer, share the woe-- +With a longing for my home within me waking, + The home I looked on last so long ago! +And the nightingales of home with their familiar song! + And lilacs in my childhood gardens fair! +How the languors of the night possess my being, + Restoring my lost youth on perfumed air! + +THE GRAND DUKE CONSTANTINE. + + + + +WITH THE GREATNESS OF GOD + +With the greatness of God all my heart is on fire! + Such a beauty to earth does He lend-- +He created eternity for our desire, + To our torment has given an end. + +NADSON. + + + + + +THE POET + +Ne'er have I sung in idle hours of dreaming, +With verse harmonious and sweet-voiced rhyme, +I have sung only when in tempest raging +My soul was shaken by a power sublime! +For each thought I have suffered and been troubled, +No dream creation painless from me torn, +The blessed lot of Poet not seldom seeming +A cross intolerable to be borne! +Oft have I sworn to evermore keep silence, +To mingle and be lost among the crowd, +But when the winds once more their strings are sweeping-- +Aeolian harps must ever cry aloud; +And in the Spring the flooding streams on-rushing +Must downward plunge into the vale below, +When from the rocky peaks' high towering summits +The sun's warm rays have melted off the snow. + +NADSON. + + + + +TO THE MUSE + +Take from thy brow the laurel--cast it forth! + May it in dust lie 'neath thy feet; +The blood-flecked thorn crown hurl away-- + As witness of thy pain alone 'tis meet! + +NADSON. + + + + +A FRAGMENT + +Hark! The storm petrel shrieks! + Reef the sail canvas fast! +See, the Spirit of Storm with wildest commotion +Has to heaven's arched vaulting his coronal pressed, +While his heels dam the flood gates of ocean! +Furious storm-cloud his undulent drapery, +Girded round with the lightning wide flashing; +O'er the sea's leaden billows from his threatening hand +The thunderbolts are sent crashing! + +NADSON. + + + + +IN MAY + +To you,--you beggars in the forests proud,-- +To pastures free, my hasting foot returns! +The May is come! It smiles and laughs aloud-- +For Love's desire, freedom's bliss, it yearns. +Erased the marks of city slavery, +Here where the sun gleams gold through azure hours-- +Here wrests the spirit from all bondage free, +The fields grown green and the syringa flowers! + +Storms only, brought my youthful morning red, +And night of soul and wilderness of pains-- +All in my breast is hushed and numb and dead, +The pulsing fever stopped within my veins; +Yet here, where Nature winds a wreath for me, +The arms stretch forth,--the weary glance devours-- +And the arrested soul exults and sings, +The fields grow green and the syringa flowers! + +NADSON. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF N.M.D. + +Slumber soft,--oh thou my heart's beloved! +Death alone can bring eternal rest, +And in death alone 'neath tearless lashes +Shall thine eyes forever close be pressed; +In thy grave, no more with fevered doubting +Shall thy golden head tormented be, +In thy grave alone, thou'lt never long for +All that life so cruel robbed from thee. + +Through the grass, white yet thy coffin shining-- +O'er thy grave the cross is looming white, +As in silent prayer unto the heavens +Mournful gleaming through the cold blue night. +Now with tears my eyes are overflowing, +Hotter tears I ne'er before have wept-- +All the bitter sorrows I have suffered +In one sobbing cry together swept. + +Spring across the fields will be returning +With her silver nightingales, ere long-- +Through the dusky nights of silence piercing +E'en thy grave with her inspiring song, +And the lindens whispering, will murmur-- +Breathless die away, and sighing cease, +But thou--slumber soft my heart's beloved, +Death alone can bring eternal peace! + +NADSON. + + + + +AT THE GRAVE OF N.M.D. + +Forsaken am I now anew, +Night's sombre wings o'er me descending, +As tearless, meditating, dumb-- +Above thy grave's low mound I'm bending. +Naught offers recompense for thee, +No hopes console or fears betray-- +For whom now live I in this world? +For whom on earth now shall I pray? + +NADSON. + + + + +IN DREAMS + +In my dreams I saw heavens bespangled, + With silvery stars all adorned, +And pale green sorrowing willows + Drooping low o'er the pale blue pond. +I saw in syringa embowered + A cottage, and thou my heart's Dove-- +And bowed was thy little curly head, + My beautiful sad pale Love! + +Thou wert weeping, the teardrops shining + Were flowing from thy yearning gaze, +For love the roses wept also, + For joy sobbed the nightingale. +And every tear found consoling-- + A greeting from near and from far, +The garden was lit by a glow worm, + Enraptured the heavens a star! + +NADSON. + + + + +THE OLD GREY HOUSE + +Thou hospitable old grey house,--A greeting unto thee! + With thy red ochre roofs,--vine trellised o'er; +The gardens fair laid forth in blooming luxury, +The fields in glinting beads of dew stretched endlessly, + Beneath the sun's fresh kiss a gilded floor! + +A silvery ribbon through the flowering green-- + The icy billows of the river foam, +Above her clay-white strand are verdant arbours seen, +Spun o'er with leafage, through the waking land between, + And where the azure river's currents roam. + +Prattling, the river lisps of love and of repose-- + And in the distance shimmers, faintly dies; +A flower, secret listening as its message flows, +A roguish kiss of gratitude in fragrance blows, + While beckoning stars smile from the silent skies. + +I greet thee, home and mother! Joys now charm anew + That I believed but once to me were given; +Thee I forsook,--and now my last expiring view +Turns back from fruitless conflict to thy vision true, + Love, no more mine, nor hope nor peace of heaven! + +Mother and home, I greet thee! O caress thy child + Whom weariness, regret, despair assail-- +With sighing of thy groves in the soft wind beguiled, +With sunbeams of thy Springtime smiling fair and mild, + And with the liquid song of nightingales! + +Let me once only weep in the assurance blest + That I am not girt round with human scorn, +Let me but sleep once more upon thy gentle breast, +Forgetting in my childish, deeply-dreaming rest + The loss and failure of my life forlorn! + +NADSON. + + + + +CALL HIM NOT DEAD + +Call him not dead,--he lives! + Ah you forget +Though the pyre lies in ruin the fires upward sweep, +The string of the harp is broken but her chords still weep, +The rose is cut but it is blooming yet! + +NADSON. + + + + + +BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES + + +ALEXANDER SERGJEWITSCH PUSHKIN was born at Moscow, May 26, 1799. His +first poetical influence came from his nurse who taught him Russian +tales, legends and proverbs, and to whom, with loving recognition, he +was grateful to the end of his life. His grandmother and this nurse +taught him to read and write. In his seventh year he began the study of +foreign languages; German, French,--which was as his mother tongue to +him,--and mathematics, which he hated. At nine the passion of reading +possessed him and he devoured his father's library, which included the +French erotics, Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopedists. His own +first poetical work was indeed written in French. In 1811 he was sent to +the school then just opened, at Tzarskoe Selo near Petersburg. Here, +however, he learned little, the students being more interested in +drinking bouts and platonic relations with barmaids and actresses; in +spite of which the art of poetry was worshiped and Pushkin with others +among his friends published a journal in manuscript that circulated +their own contributions. He was later graduated from the Alexandrovsky +Lyceum, the highest and most splendid civil school of that time, and +entered the department of Foreign Affairs. Although he retained his +entire sympathy with the poetic brotherhood, he now frequented the +salons of the titled aristocracy and gave himself up to the vortex of +luxurious society. Because of his political satires and too free +opposition to the government, he was sent away from Petersburg in 1820, +and attached to the Governor of the South Russian Colonies. Here he fell +ill and went to the Caucas for recovery. It was in the Crimea that he +learned to know and wonder over Byron. He remained three years in +Kischinew,--in the service chiefly of wine, women and cards. In 1823 he +went to Odessa as attache of the General Governor Count Woronzow, whom +he pursued with biting epigram,--until in 1824 the poet of "Russlan and +Ludimilla" was removed from the service and banished to his mother's +estates by order of the Tsar Alexander I. + +These two years of unwilling retirement worked mightily upon the soul of +Pushkin so filled with storm and stress. He struck off the chains of +Byron and steeped himself in Shakespeare; writing at this period his +drama of Boris Godunow. Nicholas First amnestied the poet and recalled +him to Moscow, instituting himself censor of all future work; likewise +placing Pushkin under the all-powerful Chief of Police Count +Benkendorff, from whom Lermontoff later had also so much to suffer. In +1829 Pushkin went to the Caucas and with the Russian army to Erzum. In +1830 he inherited from his father the management of But Boldino, where +he finished "Onegin," and three other dramas. In 1831 he was married at +Moscow to Natalie Nikolajewa Gontsharowa, whose beauty had for three +years held him in her toils. In the same year he was appointed to the +foreign office again. In 1833 the poem was published that won him his +fatal commission. Pushkin fell, as did Lermontoff later, a victim of the +envy and hatred of high society. At this time many responsible positions +were held in Russia by Frenchmen who had fled the terrors of the +revolution. Such a French emigre was D'Anthes, who pursued the wife of +Pushkin with his compromising attentions, until at a ball the poet was +almost forced to challenge him. The pistol duel, that Count Benkendorff +with cunning foresight did nothing to prevent, took place June 27, 1837. +In two days the poet was free from his tormentors forever. He was buried +in the Swatjatorgorische cloister and statues have been erected to his +honor at Petersburg, Moscow and many other cities throughout Russia. His +service to Russian literature can only be compared with that of Dante +for Italy,--since there was practically no Russian poetry before Pushkin +and he may be said to have created the Russian language as it is spoken +to-day. + + +MICHAIL JURJEWITSCH LERMONTOFF was born October 14, 1814, at Moscow. +From his father he inherited the love of brilliant society, from his +mother the love of music and an unusually sensitive temperament. When he +was but two and a half years old his mother died and he became the idol +of his grandmother, by whom he was spoiled, until the wilfulness of +youth became the arrogance and domineering quality so distinguishing his +maturity. Being a delicate child, his grandmother took him at the age of +ten to the Caucas,--which he deeply loved ever after. In 1827 he was +placed in the Adelige Pension at Moscow, having been previously much +influenced by a German nurse who inspired him with a love of German +legend and poetry, and also by his tutor, an officer in the Napoleonic +guard, who had taught him French. Up to 1831 he was under the German +unfluence [Transcriber's note: sic] in literature, but then he came +under the influence of Byron, and from this time he was never free of +the impression of the poet so congenial to his own spirit and nature. In +1830 he was matriculated by the Moscow University as a student of moral +and political science. In 1832 he went to what is now the Nicolai +Military school in Petersburg, where he wrote his censurable and erotic +poems that were passed about by thousands and won an immense popularity +with the jeunesse dore of the time, but which were regarded as +discreditable by the more serious and thoughtful society. In November, +1832, he was appointed Second Lieutenant in the Life Guard Hussar +regiment, and the young poet now plunged into the vortex of society life +as Pushkin had before him. In 1836 appeared his "Song of the Tsar Ivan +Wassiljewitsch,"--a truly classical achievement in the record of +literature. In 1837 came the poem on the death of Pushkin, that stirred +the aristocratic world and caused his banishment to the Caucas by the +Emperor Nicholas I. In April of the year 1840 he was again banished to +the Caucas for his duel with the son of the historian de Barante, where +he distinguished himself by his valor in conflict with the Tscherkes. In +February of 1841 we find the poet again at Petersburg, where the second +edition of his masterpiece, "A Hero of Our Own Time," was just +appearing. Yet toward the end of April again he was obliged to leave,-- +this time through the influence and hatred of the Countess Benkendorff. +For the third time he went to the Caucas in exile. Here in Petigorsk he +was forced into close relation with one Major Nikolai Solomonowitsch +Martynow,--whom he did not spare from his well deserved scorn. Aroused +by the local society that pursued the poet with hatred and envy, +Martynow challenged him at a ball. The seconds, as also the entire city, +expected a harmless outcome only, especially as Lermontoff, as was known +to his adversary, had declared he should shoot in the air. He held his +hand high with the pistol stretched aloft; Martynow approached, aimed, +fired, and silently the poet fell dead. Thus his own lament for Pushkin +came to be worthily written for himself-- + + "The murderer contemptuous gazing + Did steadfastly his weapon aim--" etc., etc. + +At the foot of the Machook mountains, July 27, 1841, in the +twenty-seventh year of his age, the poet died. After a year the body was +claimed by his grandmother, who lived at this time in the Pensa +district, and his remains were removed to be fitly honored in the family +village of Tarchany. In connection with the tragedy, it is pitiful to +remember that his grandmother wept herself blind over the death of the +poet. + + +COUNT ALEXIS CONSTANTINOWITSCH TOLSTOY was born at Petersburg on the 6th +of September, 1817. At the age of six weeks he was taken away from the +city to Little-Russia, by his mother and maternal uncle, who was +distinguished in Russian literature under the pseudonym of Anton +Perowskij. By this uncle he was brought up, enjoying a singularly happy +and unclouded childhood. Being an only child he played much alone, +living in his dreams and imagination and early developing a love for +poetry. At the age of eight or nine years he was taken by his parents to +Petersburg where he was presented to the heir to the throne, and allowed +to play with his children. The good will shown him at that time he never +lost throughout his entire life. The year following he was taken to +Germany, and while in Weimar was permitted to visit Goethe, which made a +lasting impression upon him. Up to the age of seventeen when he took his +examinations for the University at Moscow, he lived both in Russia and +abroad. After the death of his uncle, who made him his heir, he became +attached, by the wish of his mother, to the Russian Mission at +Frankfort. Later he returned to enter the Second Division of the +Chancellery of His Majesty. At the time of the coronation of Alexander +Second at Moscow, he was appointed to become His Majesty's aide de camp; +an honor he declined, not caring for a military career. He was afterward +made Chief Master of the Royal Hunt, a position he held until the day of +his death. From the age of sixteen he had always written poetry, but not +until 1855 did he begin to publish his lyrics and epics in the journals. +His passion for poetry was extended toward all other forms of art. At +thirteen years of age he made his first journey through Italy,--to +Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples, and his soul grew large with +enthusiasm for every manifestation of beauty, so that upon his return to +Russia he was really homesick for Italy. He said himself that it was +solely due to his passion for hunting that his poems were written in the +major key,--while those of so many of his countrymen were written in the +minor. Count Tolstoy died on the 28th of September, 1875, at his estates +in the government of Tshernigow, where he lies buried. + +His most important works were a romance, a dramatic poem, Don Juan,--and +the dramatic trilogy, The Death of Ivan the Terrible, Tsar Fedor +Ivanowitsch and Tsar Boris. + + +APOLLON NIKOLAJEWITSCH MAIKOW was born June 4, 1821, at Moscow. His +father was a painter; his brothers had rendered important service to +Russian literature in history and criticism. As a boy he was instructed +in the literature of Russia by the afterward famous Gontscharow. At the +age of fifteen he began to write verse. His original intention was to +become a painter, but the weakness of his eyes and his increased +devotion to poetry decided him otherwise. + +He studied jurisprudence at the University of St. Petersburg for several +years, and his final collection of poems was published in 1842, which +was greeted with enthusiasm by the famous critic Belinsky. In the same +year, using the gold he received from the Emperor Nicholas I, he went +abroad. He spent nearly a year in Italy, heard lectures at the College +de France and the Sorbonne during his stay in Paris, and spent some time +in Prague. For a time he served in the Ministry of Finance and from 1852 +in the Foreign Censorship office at Petersburg; being President of that +office at the time of his death which occurred in March, 1897. + + +NIKOLAI ALEXAJEWITSCH NEKRASSOW was born in November, 1821, in a village +of a Polish province. His father married the daughter of a Polish +magnate against the opposition of her parents. The marriage turned out +unhappily. There were fourteen children and the poet always thought of +his mother as a saint and his father as a tyrant,--which appears in +several of his lyric poems. His childhood was spent in Greschenewo +where the family had inherited an estate. He was sent to the government +school or gymnasium, only until the fifth class. At sixteen he went to +Petersburg to pursue a military career by the will of his father. His +desire for knowledge drove him toward the University, but his father +refused his every request, and during his student years he went hungry +very often. He wrote vaudevilles for the Alexander theatre under an +assumed name, and not until 1840 published his first volume of verse. In +his fortieth year he brought out an anthology of Russian poets that was +sufficiently successful to give him a living. In his fiftieth year his +health seemed failing, and he went abroad to Italy, where the disaster +seemed happily averted. The journal with which he had been connected +being now suppressed, he became connected with another for two years. In +December, 1877, he died, widely mourned and called "the singer of +Russian folk song." + + +IVAN SSAWITSCH NIKITIN was born October 3, 1824, at Woronesh. Though his +life was poor in external circumstances, it was all the richer within. +His best biography is his own work, "From the Diary of a Seminarist." +His life opened under rather auspicious influences, for his father owned +a candle factory and was so prosperous that his business amounted yearly +to a hundred thousand roubles. A shoemaker taught the precocious boy to +read, and he was put to school at first in the local school, but this +was exchanged in 1841 for the Seminary. Both here and at home he was, +however, more cudgelled than educated, and his soul was threatened with +suffocation in scholastic confusion. Only one consolation was always +his; literature and poetry. While here the first great misfortune +befell. His father's business failed, the house was turned into an inn +and Ivan, instead of attending the University, as he had expected, was +obliged to sell candles, not only in his father's shop, but as that was +soon taken from him, even in the market place. After a few months his +mother died and his father sacrificed his last remaining possessions for +drink. He insulted and even attacked his son, bidding him leave his +house, and the poor boy was compelled to render the most menial service +to all. For ten long years this condition lasted, yet Ivan remained a +poet! + +In 1853 at the opening of the Crimean war, his patriotic hymn, "To +Russia," appeared in the Woronisher _Times_. This was received with +applause and a circle of intelligent men gathered about him who were +friendly and helpful in their disposition toward him. In 1856 Count +Alexis Tolstoy, the great poet, prepared a volume of his poems for +publication and the imperial family sent him costly gifts. His condition +became improved and by 1859 he had amassed a capital of two thousand +roubles, with which he opened a book-shop, hoping to enlighten the +darkness of his country. To this ideal he gave all his strength and his +money. In 1860 Nikitin went to Petersburg and Moscow to establish +connections with the leading publishing houses; from which no small +literary acquaintance arose. In the Spring of 1861 he suffered from a +throat trouble which developed into bronchial tuberculosis of which he +died on October 16, 1861. His trials with his father and those caused by +his father's extreme intemperance were considered to have greatly +hastened his lamented death. + + +CONSTANTINE MICHAILOWITSCH FOFANOW was born at Petersburg, May 30, 1862. +He is not a highly educated man, and is now living, after a series of +misfortunes, happily surmounted, at Gatschina. + + +SEMIJON JAKOLOWITSCH NADSON was born at Petersburg, December 26, 1862. +On his father's side he was of Hebrew extraction. His grandfather had +formerly embraced the orthodox faith, and his father, from whom he +inherited his musical talent, died in an asylum, in the extreme youth of +the poet. His mother, after contracting a second marriage, which ended +unhappily, died at the age of thirty-one, of consumption. The boy +learned to read and write at the age of four, from an old servant. At +nine he had read widely. In 1875 he suffered from religious doubts, and +even lost his faith in humanity, but his violin and Nature were still of +unfailing support even in this crisis. Before her death his mother had +placed him in the second Cadet Corps as a "pensionnaire." At first he +did well, but soon he began to neglect his school work for poetry. A +poem of his soon appeared in print, and that same year he fell in love +with a girl of sixteen who died with rapid consumption; the M.D.B. of +his poems. Smitten by this blow, he left the school and went to the +Pawlonische Military School. Here he contracted a lung trouble and was +sent to the Caucas. He remained there a year, but was always haunted by +thought of the military career before him, for which he was morally and +physically unfit. His dear dream of the University could not be +realized, and on his return he went again to the military school for two +years of camp life and maneuvres. In September, 1882, he was made second +lieutenant of a Caspian regiment and stationed at Kronstadt. Already the +young poet was making himself known through the journals, and in 1884 he +left off his hated military service. For a short time he was connected +with _Die Woche_, but already signs of tuberculosis had appeared and he +found that a journey abroad was indispensable. On the funds raised by +influential friends, and the prize awarded him by the Russian Literary +Society, he was enabled to go abroad this same year, accompanied by a +friend of his mother. He went to Wiesbaden, Nice, Mentonne, Berne, was +operated upon three times for the trouble in his foot, but to no avail. +His only desire became to return to his native land to die. In the +summer of 1885, he went back to Kiew, where for a time he seemed to +improve and was able to write some criticisms for the journals. When his +left lung gave out, he moved to Yalta in the Crimea. Here he received +the glad news that the Academy had given him the Pushkin award of five +hundred roubles. + +In November he bequeathed all he had written to the literary fund; whose +Nadson capital now amounts to more than two hundred thousand roubles +from the sale of his works. He died in January, 1889. His body was +brought to Petersburg and interred with public honors. His grave, which +is near other celebrated Russian writers, is adorned by a bust from the +hand of the famous sculptor Antokolsky. His poetry enjoys a popularity +beyond that of any one poet in Russian, and has been carried to the +eighteenth edition of one hundred and twenty thousand volumes each. + + +Sketches of the lives of the poets here represented by a single poem are +omitted as unnecessary to enjoyment of their work. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Russian Lyrics +by Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN LYRICS *** + +***** This file should be named 11985.txt or 11985.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/9/8/11985/ + +Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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