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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/27069-h.zip b/27069-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..054fd5d --- /dev/null +++ b/27069-h.zip diff --git a/27069-h/27069-h.htm b/27069-h/27069-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f923eb --- /dev/null +++ b/27069-h/27069-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1295 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sonnets from the Crimea, by Adam Mickiewicz. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sonnets from the Crimea, by Adam Mickiewicz + +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: Sonnets from the Crimea + +Author: Adam Mickiewicz + +Translator: Edna Worthley Underwood + +Release Date: October 27, 2008 [EBook #27069] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA *** + + + + +Produced by Jimmy O'Regan (This file was produced from +images generously made available by the University of +California Libraries/The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_I" id="Page_I">[I]</a></span></p> +<h1>Sonnets from the Crimea</h1> + +<h2>By Adam Mickiewicz</h2> + +<h5>Translated by</h5> +<h3>Edna Worthley Underwood</h3> + +<p>MCMXVII</p> + +<p>Paul Elder and Company, Publisher<br/> +San Francisco</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_II" id="Page_II">[II]</a></span></p> + +<p>Copyright, 1917, by<br /> +Paul Elder and Company<br /> +San Francisco</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_III" id="Page_III">[III]</a></span></p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table> +<tr><td> +<a href="#ADAM_MICKIEWICZ"><b>Adam Mickiewicz</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_VII"><b>VII</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A biographical sketch by Edna Worthley Underwood</span> +</td> +<td></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#THE_ACKERMAN_STEPPE"><b>The Ackerman Steppe</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_3"><b>3</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#BECALMED"><b>Becalmed</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_5"><b>5</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#MOUNTAINS_FROM_THE_KESLOV_STEPPE"><b>Mountains from the Keslov Steppe</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#BAKTSCHI_SERAI"><b>Baktschi Serai</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_9"><b>9</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#BAKTSCHI_SERAI_BY_NIGHT"><b>Baktschi Serai by Night</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_11"><b>11</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#THE_GRAVE_OF_COUNTESS_POTOCKA"><b>The Grave of Countess Potocka</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_13"><b>13</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#THE_GRAVES_OF_THE_HAREM"><b>The Graves of the Harem</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_15"><b>15</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#BAYDARY"><b>Baydary</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_17"><b>17</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#ALUSHTA_BY_DAY"><b>Alushta by Day</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_19"><b>19</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#ALUSHTA_BY_NIGHT"><b>Alushta by Night</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_21"><b>21</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#TSCHATIR_DAGH"><b>Tschatir Dagh (Mirza)</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_23"><b>23</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#TSCHATIR_DAGH_P"><b>Tschatir Dagh (The Pilgrim)</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_25"><b>25</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#THE_PASS_ACROSS_THE_ABYSS_IN_THE_TSCHUFUT-KALE"><b>The Pass Across the Abyss in the Tschufut-Kale</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_27"><b>27</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#MIRZA"><b>(Mirza)</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_29"><b>29</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#THE_RUINS_OF_BALACLAVA"><b>The Ruins of Balaclava</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_31"><b>31</b></a> +</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<a href="#ON_JUDAS_CLIFF"><b>On Juda's Cliff</b></a> +</td><td> +<a href="#Page_33"><b>33</b></a> +</td></tr> +</table> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_V" id="Page_V">[V]</a></span></p> +<h2>ADAM MICKIEWICZ</h2> +<h3>A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH</h3> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_VII" id="Page_VII">[VII]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ADAM_MICKIEWICZ" id="ADAM_MICKIEWICZ"></a>ADAM MICKIEWICZ</h2> + +<h3>(1798-1855)</h3> + +<p>The last of the eighteenth century was an important +period for Russia and Poland, not only politically, +but in letters and art. It marked the birth of statesmen, +patriots, poets and writers. It was into a Poland of great +names and greater activities that Adam Mickiewicz was +born in 1798, as son of an impoverished family of the old +nobility. Three years before, the third and last partition of +his native land had taken place, and the signed documents +had been hastened to Petersburg to make more triumphant +the birthday of the Great Catherine.</p> + +<p>Just a few years before this (1792), Kosciusko had courageously +led his forty-five thousand valiant Poles in their +brave defiance of an overwhelming number of Cossacks +and Russians. History had recorded the bloody Turkish +wars, the Pugatshev rebellion, the uprising of the Zaporogian +Cossacks and the Polish confederations. And with the +nineteenth century came the Napoleonic wars with the +dramatic entry of Napoleon into Russia, and a new and +different mental life began to dawn over Europe.</p> + +<p>Mickiewicz was born in Novogrodek in Lithuania. This +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_VIII" id="Page_VIII">[VIII]</a></span> +was the birthplace of Count Henry Rzewuski, who wrote +the delightful memories of the Polish eighteenth century, +under the title of "The Memories of Pan Severin Soplica,"<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[*]</a> +and who declared he considered it an honor to be born a +"schlazig" (noble) of Lithuania, and of Novogrodek. He +went to a government school in Minsk, and later attended +the University of Vilna, which city in his day was a place +of Jesuit faith, gloomy convents and echoing bells. All +about him epoch-making events for Slav lands were taking +place. It was a resounding, inspired age for his race, and +he grew up to take a fitting place in that age and to be +called "the immortal hero of Polish poetry." Poland just +then was the battle-ground not only for the armies of +Europe, but for the diplomats. It was a place for statesmen +to win their spurs. If accredited to Petersburg or +Warsaw, and successful, they were believed to be equal to +any diplomatic emergency. Eloquence, inspiration, and +patriotic fervor must have cradled his childhood.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[*]</span></a> The full title of the book is: Memories of Pan Severin Soplica, Cupbearer +of Parnau, by Count Henry Rzewuski.</p></div> + +<p>At the time of the birth of Mickiewicz, Russia was +bringing to a close a prodigious period of development in +almost every field of human activity. It was really the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_IX" id="Page_IX">[IX]</a></span> +birth-throe of a nation that was to move powerfully, and to +dominate—partially—the new age. And the splendid and +never again to be equalled pageant of the life of Catherine +the Great, with its wild dreams of world dominance and of +the glorious revival of perished Greece, had just been unrolled +for the amazement of Europe. What dramatic and +enchanting memories the names of her followers call up: +the Orlows, Potemkin, Panin, Poniatowski, Bestushew-Rjumin, +Princess Daschkov, Razumowski.</p> + +<p>In France, too, the same preceding period had been brilliant. +It had been the France of Voltaire, the Encyclopedists, +and a most resplendent and luxurious monarch. England +had known her greatest orators and prime ministers. +It had been the Prussia of Frederick the Great; the Dresden +of August the Strong; the Austria of Joseph the Second.</p> + +<p>A little later—during Mickiewicz's own youth—Goethe +was at the height of his power and the intellectual dictator +of Europe. Under his direction and encouragement the +treasures of oriental literature were being translated and +made known to the West. This is merely a hasty glimpse of +the "mise-en-scene" that preceded the debut in life of the +most renowned of Polish poets. The old traditions of absolute +and God-created monarchs and princely times were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_X" id="Page_X">[X]</a></span> +coming to an end, and that democratic modern world, +where everything was to change, was close at hand, just +over the crest, indeed, of this new century into which Fate +was ushering him. He was to see the last of blind power +and royal prerogative, and the first dawn of a modern +spirit which in time would sweep away forever, the old. +It was an uncertain, difficult transition period, without +standards and without measurements.</p> + +<p>As we take a fleeting, bird's-eye view of the stirring times +in which his days were spent, his travels, his army life, +his periods of professorship, we can not help but wonder at +the amount of writing Mickiewicz did. And his life was +not a long one; it did not reach to sixty years. But during +the working years allotted him, before a mystical melancholy +—which was threatening to degenerate into madness—had +impaired his faculties, his mind was unusually brilliant, +creative and marvelously disciplined. It obeyed at +will. At one time he was professor of Latin in Lausanne; +at another time he held the chair of Slavic languages in +Paris. He taught Polish and Latin in Kovno. He traveled +extensively in Italy in the interest of the Polish revolution. +His mind was many-sided and capable of various +activities. He devoted considerable time to advanced +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XI" id="Page_XI">[XI]</a></span> +mathematics and philosophy. He made scientific investigations +in Vilna under Lalewel. At one time and another +he lived in various large cities of Europe. In Germany +he met and became friendly with Goethe. In Switzerland +he met Krasinski. In 1833 he married Celina +Szymanovska. Her mother was the famous Slav beauty +and musician who had so delighted Goethe in her youth.</p> + +<p>Among writers of Russia and Poland whose life period +somewhat coincided with that of Mickiewicz's are: Korzenowski +(born in 1797), the novelist (a brother of Adam +Mickiewicz was fellow-teacher with Korzenowski at Charkov); +Danilewski (1829), likewise a novelist—it was he +who translated The Crimean Sonnets into Russian; Malzweski, +Polish patriot and poet, whose "Maria"—perhaps +the most popular poetic story in Poland—appeared at +almost the same time as The Crimean Sonnets; Zaleski +(1802), Slowacki (1809), Krasinski (1812), the three +greatest poets of Poland excepting only Mickiewicz himself, +the Polish critic, Brodzinski.</p> + +<p>In Russia, the golden age of literature almost covered +the same period as Mickiewicz's own life—Puschkin, +Lermontov, Schukowski, Gogol, to mention only some of +the most important names.</p> + +<p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XII" id="Page_XII">[XII]</a></span> +In the eighteen-thirties we find Mickiewicz in Paris, +which happened to be filled just then with a crowd of brilliant +Slavic exiles. Here he became the friend of Chopin, and +one of Chopin's most talented pupils—a young Polish girl—made +the first translation of the Sonnets into French. +It was a wonderful and brilliant Paris which Mickiewicz +entered. This was the time when the city was first called +"the stepmother of Genius." Heine was here in exile, and +Börne. It knew the personal fascination and the denunciative +writings of Ferdinand la Salle. It was the day, too, of +Eugene Sue, Berlioz, George Sand, de Musset, Dumas, +Gautier, the Goncourt Brothers, Gavarni, Sainte Beuve, +Liszt, Felix Mendelssohn, Ary Scheffer, Delacroiz, Horace +Vernet—to mention only a few great names at random. +Julius Slowacki, Count Krasinski and Adam Mickiewicz +were all here editing their poetry in the midst of this +brilliant life in the inspiring city by the Seine. This +period in Paris signs perhaps the high-water mark of the +creative genius of Mickiewicz. He had already written the +Ballads and Romances, the third part of Dziady, Pan +Tadeuz.</p> + +<p>The Crimean Sequence belongs to the period of Mickiewicz's +youth, the Vilna period. He joined a society at this +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIII" id="Page_XIII">[XIII]</a></span> +time which was looked upon with disfavor by the Government. +At length, because of his continued participation in +it, he was exiled to southern Russia. On that trip, while he +was going toward Odessa, he began the Crimean Sonnets. +Their success was quick and astonishing. They were +translated into every language of Europe. Although the +form is the traditional and classic sonnet form, he makes +use of it in a slightly different manner, not altogether as an +exposition of the sentiments of the soul, and the convictions +and emotions of the mind, but as an instrument with +which to sketch what he saw upon this eventful journey. +He used the sonnet form at that period just as Verhaeren +used it in "Les Flamandes," to show us Flanders, and as +Albert Samain in "Le Chariot d'Or," to picture the gardens +of Versailles. This is worthy of note. And this we +must remember was before 1826. In the poetical works of +Mickiewicz there was always traceable an inclination to +break tradition and to search for new and untried possibilities.</p> + +<p>On this exile in Russia he learned to know Puschkin, +then a young man like himself. Puschkin has written a +verse letter to him which we transcribe in free prose. "He +lived among us for a while—a people strange to him. And +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIV" id="Page_XIV">[XIV]</a></span> +yet his mind cherished no hatred and no longing for revenge. +Generous, kind of heart, noble-minded, he joined +our evening circles, and we loved him. We exchanged our +dreams, our plans—our poems. God gave him genius and +inspiration. He stood always on the heights and looked +down on life. We talked of history and of nations. He +declared a time would come when races would forget all +evil things—like war, rebellion—and dwell together peaceably +in one great family. We listened to him eagerly for he +had the gift of speech. After a while he went away and we +gave our blessing to him. Then we learned our guest—spurred +on by his revengeful race—had become our enemy. +To please that bitter race of his he filled his songs with +hatred. Of our beloved friend there came to us only revenge +and angry thoughts. God grant that peace may come +again to his embittered heart!"</p> + +<p>Puschkin himself wrote eloquently of these same Crimean +scenes that Mickiewicz shows us. He, too, was inspired +by the old capital city of the Tartar rulers. We +recall his "Fountain of Baktschi Serai." And he, too, +brings before our eyes again that gigantic mountain world +of southern Russia in "The Prisoner of the Caucasus."</p> + +<p>The fame of The Crimean Sonnets was so great that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XV" id="Page_XV">[XV]</a></span> +Mickiewicz was offered a government position which attached +him to the person of the powerful Prince Galitzin, +in Moscow. It was in Rome, and singularly enough it was +when he wrote the "Ode to Youth" that he began to devote +himself to mystical studies which had such an injurious +effect upon his mind. For some time after he had lost his +fluent power as a poet, he retained his conversational gifts +which were remarkable and brought him almost as much +fame as his poetry. His life ended in a period as dramatic +as that in which it began. He entered the Turkish wars in +1855 and died in Stamboul in that same year. It is somewhat +peculiar and at the same time no little to his credit +that he should have chosen the sonnet as the instrument of +his quick sketching of Crimea on the trip of exile, because +the sonnet has never been a frequently chosen means of expression +of the Slav races, despite the numerous sonnets +written later by Vrchlicky, Preseren and others. The sonnet +has belonged more to the Latin races, and to the English +race. The Crimean Sonnets, however, rank among the +famous sequences.</p> + +<p style="text-align: right;">Edna Worthley Underwood.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA</h2> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_ACKERMAN_STEPPE" id="THE_ACKERMAN_STEPPE"></a>THE ACKERMAN STEPPE</h2> + +<p> +Across sea-meadows measureless I go,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My wagon sinking under grass so tall</span><br /> +The flowery petals in foam on me fall,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And blossom-isles float by I do not know.</span><br /> +No pathway can the deepening twilight show;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I seek the beckoning stars which sailors call,</span><br /> +And watch the clouds. What lies there brightening all?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Dneister's, the steppe-ocean's evening glow!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +The silence! I can hear far flight of cranes—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So far the eyes of eagle could not reach—</span><br /> +And bees and blossoms speaking each to each;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The serpent slipping adown grassy lanes;</span><br /> +From my far home if word could come to me!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yet none will come. On, o'er the meadow-sea!</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BECALMED" id="BECALMED"></a>BECALMED</h2> + +<p> +The flag is listless, limp. It dances not.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As deep the sea breathes from a gentle breast</span><br /> +As any bride who dreams at love's behest,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And wakes and sighs, then casts with dreams her lot.</span><br /> +Sails hang upon the masts—useless—forgot—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Like folded standards which the warriors wrest</span><br /> +And bring home broken from the battle's crest.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The sailors rest them in some sheltered spot.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +O Sea! within your unknown deeps concealed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When storms are wild, your monsters dream and sleep,</span><br /> +And all their cruelty for the sunlight keep.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thus, Soul of Mine, in your sad deeps concealed</span><br /> +The monsters sleep—when wild are storms. They start<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">From out some blue sky's peace to seize my heart.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MOUNTAINS_FROM_THE_KESLOV_STEPPE" id="MOUNTAINS_FROM_THE_KESLOV_STEPPE"></a>MOUNTAINS FROM THE KESLOV STEPPE</h2> + +<p>(Pilgrim)</p> + +<p> +What would Great Allah with the frozen sea?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would he of icy clouds a throne carve bright,</span><br /> +Or would the demons of the deepest night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A bar build where the shining stars sweep free?</span><br /> +It gleams like pagan cities fired, kings flee.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When Day was anciently destroyed by Night</span><br /> +Did Allah amid chaos fix this light<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To guide the star-worlds of eternity?</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>(Mirza)</p> + +<p> +Up there I've journeyed where the winter reigns,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And seen the rivers bitten black like lines</span><br /> +On Tschatir Dagh, where the white cloud reclines,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Which not the wildest eagle's shadow stains,</span><br /> +Where cradled under me the thunders sleep<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And Allah and the stars their watches keep.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BAKTSCHI_SERAI" id="BAKTSCHI_SERAI"></a>BAKTSCHI SERAI</h2> + +<p> +In ruin are the spacious, splendid halls<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With frozen forest of white columns where</span><br /> +The Tartar Khan his palace builded fair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where loneliest the shrilling cricket calls.</span><br /> +The ivy blackens over shining walls<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Enscribing in gigantic letters there</span><br /> +Some curse Belshazzar-like: <span class="smcap">Beware! Beware!</span>—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then black as crèpe from crested columns falls.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +Within the burnished banquet room there sings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The fountain of the harem pure and clear,</span><br /> +Just as of old it sang in twilights drear.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But whither love and fame speed—on what wings?</span><br /> +When all things else must perish these endure!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yet both are gone! The fountain ripples pure.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BAKTSCHI_SERAI_BY_NIGHT" id="BAKTSCHI_SERAI_BY_NIGHT"></a>BAKTSCHI SERAI BY NIGHT</h2> + +<p> +From out the mosques the pious wend their way;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Muezzin voices tremble through the night;</span><br /> +Within the sky the pallid King of Light<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wraps silvered ermine round him while he may,</span><br /> +And Heaven's harem greets its star array.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">One lone white cloud rests in the azure height—</span><br /> +A veiled court lady in some sorrow's plight—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whom cruel love and day have cast away.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +The mosques stand there; and here tall cypress trees;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There—mountains, towering, black as demons frown,</span><br /> +Which Lucifer in rage from God cast down.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Like sword blades lightning flickers over these,</span><br /> +And on an Arab steed the wild Khan rides<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who goes to Baktschi Serai which night hides.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_GRAVE_OF_COUNTESS_POTOCKA" id="THE_GRAVE_OF_COUNTESS_POTOCKA"></a>THE GRAVE OF COUNTESS POTOCKA</h2> + +<p> +In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You faded and forgot the joy of youth;</span><br /> +Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of bitter memory that stings and glows.</span><br /> +O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth,</span><br /> +When she who loved you and lent you her youth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beside your grave a while pray let me rest</span><br /> +With other wanderers at some grief's behest.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true.</span><br /> +High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_GRAVES_OF_THE_HAREM" id="THE_GRAVES_OF_THE_HAREM"></a>THE GRAVES OF THE HAREM</h2> + + +<p> +They sleep well here whom Allah loved and kept<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And treasured in his vineyard fair and fine,</span><br /> +Most lustrous of the Orient pearls that shine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Which youth found where the waves of passion swept.</span><br /> +Here, where in peace perpetual they have slept,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A turban beckons where the roses twine,</span><br /> +A banner flutters out in silken line,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And sometimes here a Giaour's name is kept.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +Oh! roses of this paradise of old,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The eyes that loved not Allah saw you not,</span><br /> +Nor arms that prayed not eastward could enfold!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But now a Christian treads this hallowed spot;</span><br /> +Wise Allah, curse not him who bows his head<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Amid the marble shrines of Allah's dead!</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BAYDARY" id="BAYDARY"></a>BAYDARY</h2> + +<p> +Give wings unto the storm, and spurs to steed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'd move unchained as wind across the world,</span><br /> +Sweep onward like a torrent mountain-hurled,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nor sea, nor height, nor valley pause to heed.</span><br /> +The twilight spreads a dimness o'er our speed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And shows the diamond-stars from hoofs up-whirled,</span><br /> +Since daylight now her curtained blue has juried,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And mystery and magic shadows breed.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +The earth sleeps, but not I—not I—not I—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who hasten to the shore where waves are loud</span><br /> +And toward me in the darkness whitely crowd.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beneath them I would still my soul's deep cry—</span><br /> +Like ships the whirlpools seize to drag to death—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'd plunge within the silence, sans thought, breath.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> <h2><a name="ALUSHTA_BY_DAY" id="ALUSHTA_BY_DAY"></a>ALUSHTA BY DAY</h2> + + +<p> +The mighty mountain flings its mist-veil down;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With little flowers the gracious fields are bright,</span><br /> +And from the forest colors flash to sight<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Like gems that drop from off a Calif's crown.</span><br /> +Upon the meadows settles shimmering down<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A band of butterflies in rainbow flight;</span><br /> +Cicadas call and call in day's delight,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And bees are dreaming in a blossom's crown.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +The waves beneath the cliff are thunder-pale,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now upward, upward in their rage they rise</span><br /> +And tawny are their crests as tigers' eyes.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The sun is focused on one white, far sail</span><br /> +And on blue, shining deeps as smooth as glass<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wherein slim cranes are shadowed as they pass.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> <h2><a name="ALUSHTA_BY_NIGHT" id="ALUSHTA_BY_NIGHT"></a>ALUSHTA BY NIGHT</h2> + +<p> +The drooping, weary day night pushed aside;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On Tschatir Dagh the sullen sun and low</span><br /> +Paints phantom purple upon ancient snow;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">While forest ways within, the wanderers hide.</span><br /> +Night veils the mountains and the valleys wide;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The thunderous brooks are dream-held, dulled, and slow;</span><br /> +Beneath the blackness fragrant flowers blow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And rich leaf-music clothes each valley side.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +Almost my waking eyes are dream-held too;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With gold a meteor marks the deep-domed sky</span><br /> +And fountain-like the fiery sparks float by.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh! Beauty of the Eastern Night, you woo</span><br /> +My spirit like the odalisque, who held<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Men captive till her kiss the dream dispelled!</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TSCHATIR_DAGH" id="TSCHATIR_DAGH"></a>TSCHATIR DAGH</h2> + +<p>(Mirza)</p> + +<p> +The reverent Mussulman bends low to greet<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship!</span><br /> +World-altar,—minaret—the place where dip<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet!</span><br /> +You guard the door of God in splendor meet,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Like Gabriel with holy sword on hip;</span><br /> +In bright mist mantled from the toe to lip,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tour turban set with alien stars and sweet.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +If winter rule the world, or summer's sun,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If Giaour rage about, or winds are wild,</span><br /> +Above them, Tschatir Dagh, you, changeless one,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Are like to Allah, pure and undefiled;</span><br /> +Aloft you tower from out the lowly sod<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To give to men again the will of God.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TSCHATIR_DAGH_P" id="TSCHATIR_DAGH_P"></a>TSCHATIR DAGH</h2> + +<p>(The Pilgrim)</p> + +<p> +Below me half a world I see outspread;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;</span><br /> +And yet the happy pulse of life is slow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I dream of distant places, pleasures dead.</span><br /> +The woods of Lithuania I would tread<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;</span><br /> +Above the trembling marshland I would go<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o'er head.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A longing for some peaceful, gentle place,</span><br /> +And memories of youthful love I trace.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Unto my childhood home I long to start,</span><br /> +And yet if all the leaves my name could cry<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">She would not pause nor heed as she passed by.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_PASS_ACROSS_THE_ABYSS_IN_THE_TSCHUFUT-KALE" id="THE_PASS_ACROSS_THE_ABYSS_IN_THE_TSCHUFUT-KALE"></a>THE PASS ACROSS THE ABYSS IN THE TSCHUFUT-KALE</h2> + +<p>(Mirza)</p> + +<p> +Pray! Pray! Let loose the bridle. Look not down!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The humble horse alone has wisdom here.</span><br /> +He knows where blackest the abysses leer<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And where the path in safety leads us down.</span><br /> +Pray, and look upward to the mountain's crown!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The deep below is endless where you peer;</span><br /> +Stretch not the hand out as you pass, for fear<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The added weight of that might plunge you down.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +And check your thoughts' free flight, too, while you go;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Let all of Fancy's fluttering sails be furled</span><br /> +Here where Death watches o'er the riven world.<br /> +</p> + +<p>(Pilgrim)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I lived to cross the bridge of ancient snow!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But what I saw my tongue no more can tell,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The angels only could rehearse that well.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MIRZA" id="MIRZA"></a>(MIRZA)</h2> + +<p> +Behold blue Heaven in that deep abyss!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The sea is that! Behold the long waves shine!</span><br /> +Watch how they rock that giant bird divine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whose swinging white wings wide horizons kiss.</span><br /> +Is that an iceberg in the blue abyss?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No, no—a cloud! Watch how 'tis veiling fine</span><br /> +The sea, the land, out-blotting every line<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">To drown it all in darkness soon I wis.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +The lightning comes now! Frightful is its sweep.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But softly—softly! Watch my spur—my whip!</span><br /> +I'll leap across unto that chasm's lip.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What still and chilling sternness great cliffs keep!</span><br /> +Down there light calls to me. Soon there I'll be.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Uncanny is such loneliness to me.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_RUINS_OF_BALACLAVA" id="THE_RUINS_OF_BALACLAVA"></a>THE RUINS OF BALACLAVA</h2> + +<p> +Oh, thankless Crimean land! in ruin laid<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Are now the castles that were once your pride!</span><br /> +Here serpents and the owls from daylight hide,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And robbers arm them for the nightly raid.</span><br /> +Upon the lettered marble boasts are made,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Brave words on battered arms in gold descried,</span><br /> +And broken splendor years have scattered wide,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beside the dead who made them are arrayed.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +The Greek set shining, columned marble here.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Latin put the Mongol horde to flight,</span><br /> +And Mussulmans prayed eastward morn and night.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The owl and vulture of dark wing and drear</span><br /> +Are fluttering like black banners overhead<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In cities where the pest piles high the dead.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ON_JUDAS_CLIFF" id="ON_JUDAS_CLIFF"></a>ON JUDA'S CLIFF</h2> + +<p> +On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On waves that battling beat and break with might,</span><br /> +While farther seaward in a bland delight,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I see them shining where a rainbow shook.</span><br /> +On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On waves that like sea-armies swing to sight,</span><br /> +To send upon the shore their billows white,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And, ebbing, to leave pearls in every nook.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p> +Thus, Poet, in your youth when storms are wild<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And passions break upon the heart and brain,</span><br /> +To leave their ruin there—shipwreck and waste—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pick up your lute! Upon it undefiled</span><br /> +You'll find song-pearls that your heart-deeps retain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The crown the years have brought you, white and chaste.</span><br /> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> + +<p>Here, then, end the Crimean Sonnets of the immortal +hero of Polish poetry, Adam Mickiezvicz +as translated by Edna Worthley Underwood and +published by Paul Elder and Company at their +Tomoye Press, in the city of San Francisco, under +the direction of Ricardo J. Orozco, their printer +during the month of August, nineteen seventeen</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sonnets from the Crimea, by Adam Mickiewicz + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA *** + +***** This file should be named 27069-h.htm or 27069-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/0/6/27069/ + +Produced by Jimmy O'Regan (This file was produced from +images generously made available by the University of +California Libraries/The Internet Archive) + + +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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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: Sonnets from the Crimea + +Author: Adam Mickiewicz + +Translator: Edna Worthley Underwood + +Release Date: October 27, 2008 [EBook #27069] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA *** + + + + +Produced by Jimmy O'Regan (This file was produced from +images generously made available by the University of +California Libraries/The Internet Archive) + + + + + + + +Sonnets from the Crimea + +By Adam Mickiewicz + +Translated by +Edna Worthley Underwood + + + +MCMXVII + +Paul Elder and Company, Publisher +San Francisco + +Copyright, 1917, by +Paul Elder and Company +San Francisco + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Adam Mickiewicz + A biographical sketch by Edna Worthley Underwood + The Ackerman Steppe + Becalmed + Mountains from the Keslov Steppe + Baktschi Serai + Baktschi Serai by Night + The Grave of Countess Potocka + The Graves of the Harem + Baydary + Alushta by Day + Alushta by Night + Tschatir Dagh (Mirza) + Tschatir Dagh (The Pilgrim) + The Pass Across the Abyss in the Tschufut-Kale + (Mirza) + The Ruins of Balaclava + On Juda's Cliff + + + + +ADAM MICKIEWICZ +A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH + + +ADAM MICKIEWICZ + +(1798-1855) + +The last of the eighteenth century was an important period for Russia +and Poland, not only politically, but in letters and art. It marked the +birth of statesmen, patriots, poets and writers. It was into a Poland of +great names and greater activities that Adam Mickiewicz was born in +1798, as son of an impoverished family of the old nobility. Three years +before, the third and last partition of his native land had taken place, +and the signed documents had been hastened to Petersburg to make more +triumphant the birthday of the Great Catherine. + +Just a few years before this (1792), Kosciusko had courageously led his +forty-five thousand valiant Poles in their brave defiance of an +overwhelming number of Cossacks and Russians. History had recorded the +bloody Turkish wars, the Pugatshev rebellion, the uprising of the +Zaporogian Cossacks and the Polish confederations. And with the +nineteenth century came the Napoleonic wars with the dramatic entry of +Napoleon into Russia, and a new and different mental life began to dawn +over Europe. + +Mickiewicz was born in Novogrodek in Lithuania. This was the birthplace +of Count Henry Rzewuski, who wrote the delightful memories of the Polish +eighteenth century, under the title of "The Memories of Pan Severin +Soplica,"[*] and who declared he considered it an honor to be born a +"schlazig" (noble) of Lithuania, and of Novogrodek. He went to a +government school in Minsk, and later attended the University of Vilna, +which city in his day was a place of Jesuit faith, gloomy convents and +echoing bells. All about him epoch-making events for Slav lands were +taking place. It was a resounding, inspired age for his race, and he +grew up to take a fitting place in that age and to be called "the +immortal hero of Polish poetry." Poland just then was the battle-ground +not only for the armies of Europe, but for the diplomats. It was a place +for statesmen to win their spurs. If accredited to Petersburg or Warsaw, +and successful, they were believed to be equal to any diplomatic +emergency. Eloquence, inspiration, and patriotic fervor must have +cradled his childhood. + +[Footnote *: The full title of the book is: Memories of Pan Severin +Soplica, Cupbearer of Parnau, by Count Henry Rzewuski.] + +At the time of the birth of Mickiewicz, Russia was bringing to a close a +prodigious period of development in almost every field of human +activity. It was really the birth-throe of a nation that was to move +powerfully, and to dominate--partially--the new age. And the splendid +and never again to be equalled pageant of the life of Catherine the +Great, with its wild dreams of world dominance and of the glorious +revival of perished Greece, had just been unrolled for the amazement of +Europe. What dramatic and enchanting memories the names of her followers +call up: the Orlows, Potemkin, Panin, Poniatowski, Bestushew-Rjumin, +Princess Daschkov, Razumowski. + +In France, too, the same preceding period had been brilliant. It had +been the France of Voltaire, the Encyclopedists, and a most resplendent +and luxurious monarch. England had known her greatest orators and prime +ministers. It had been the Prussia of Frederick the Great; the Dresden +of August the Strong; the Austria of Joseph the Second. + +A little later--during Mickiewicz's own youth--Goethe was at the height +of his power and the intellectual dictator of Europe. Under his +direction and encouragement the treasures of oriental literature were +being translated and made known to the West. This is merely a hasty +glimpse of the "mise-en-scene" that preceded the debut in life of the +most renowned of Polish poets. The old traditions of absolute and +God-created monarchs and princely times were coming to an end, and that +democratic modern world, where everything was to change, was close at +hand, just over the crest, indeed, of this new century into which Fate +was ushering him. He was to see the last of blind power and royal +prerogative, and the first dawn of a modern spirit which in time would +sweep away forever, the old. It was an uncertain, difficult transition +period, without standards and without measurements. + +As we take a fleeting, bird's-eye view of the stirring times in which +his days were spent, his travels, his army life, his periods of +professorship, we can not help but wonder at the amount of writing +Mickiewicz did. And his life was not a long one; it did not reach to +sixty years. But during the working years allotted him, before a +mystical melancholy--which was threatening to degenerate into +madness--had impaired his faculties, his mind was unusually brilliant, +creative and marvelously disciplined. It obeyed at will. At one time he +was professor of Latin in Lausanne; at another time he held the chair of +Slavic languages in Paris. He taught Polish and Latin in Kovno. He +traveled extensively in Italy in the interest of the Polish revolution. +His mind was many-sided and capable of various activities. He devoted +considerable time to advanced mathematics and philosophy. He made +scientific investigations in Vilna under Lalewel. At one time and +another he lived in various large cities of Europe. In Germany he met +and became friendly with Goethe. In Switzerland he met Krasinski. In +1833 he married Celina Szymanovska. Her mother was the famous Slav +beauty and musician who had so delighted Goethe in her youth. + +Among writers of Russia and Poland whose life period somewhat coincided +with that of Mickiewicz's are: Korzenowski (born in 1797), the novelist +(a brother of Adam Mickiewicz was fellow-teacher with Korzenowski at +Charkov); Danilewski (1829), likewise a novelist--it was he who +translated The Crimean Sonnets into Russian; Malzweski, Polish patriot +and poet, whose "Maria"--perhaps the most popular poetic story in +Poland--appeared at almost the same time as The Crimean Sonnets; Zaleski +(1802), Slowacki (1809), Krasinski (1812), the three greatest poets of +Poland excepting only Mickiewicz himself, the Polish critic, Brodzinski. + +In Russia, the golden age of literature almost covered the same period +as Mickiewicz's own life--Puschkin, Lermontov, Schukowski, Gogol, to +mention only some of the most important names. + +In the eighteen-thirties we find Mickiewicz in Paris, which happened to +be filled just then with a crowd of brilliant Slavic exiles. Here he +became the friend of Chopin, and one of Chopin's most talented pupils--a +young Polish girl--made the first translation of the Sonnets into +French. It was a wonderful and brilliant Paris which Mickiewicz entered. +This was the time when the city was first called "the stepmother of +Genius." Heine was here in exile, and Boerne. It knew the personal +fascination and the denunciative writings of Ferdinand la Salle. It was +the day, too, of Eugene Sue, Berlioz, George Sand, de Musset, Dumas, +Gautier, the Goncourt Brothers, Gavarni, Sainte Beuve, Liszt, Felix +Mendelssohn, Ary Scheffer, Delacroiz, Horace Vernet--to mention only a +few great names at random. Julius Slowacki, Count Krasinski and Adam +Mickiewicz were all here editing their poetry in the midst of this +brilliant life in the inspiring city by the Seine. This period in Paris +signs perhaps the high-water mark of the creative genius of Mickiewicz. +He had already written the Ballads and Romances, the third part of +Dziady, Pan Tadeuz. + +The Crimean Sequence belongs to the period of Mickiewicz's youth, the +Vilna period. He joined a society at this time which was looked upon +with disfavor by the Government. At length, because of his continued +participation in it, he was exiled to southern Russia. On that trip, +while he was going toward Odessa, he began the Crimean Sonnets. Their +success was quick and astonishing. They were translated into every +language of Europe. Although the form is the traditional and classic +sonnet form, he makes use of it in a slightly different manner, not +altogether as an exposition of the sentiments of the soul, and the +convictions and emotions of the mind, but as an instrument with which to +sketch what he saw upon this eventful journey. He used the sonnet form +at that period just as Verhaeren used it in "Les Flamandes," to show us +Flanders, and as Albert Samain in "Le Chariot d'Or," to picture the +gardens of Versailles. This is worthy of note. And this we must remember +was before 1826. In the poetical works of Mickiewicz there was always +traceable an inclination to break tradition and to search for new and +untried possibilities. + +On this exile in Russia he learned to know Puschkin, then a young man +like himself. Puschkin has written a verse letter to him which we +transcribe in free prose. "He lived among us for a while--a people +strange to him. And yet his mind cherished no hatred and no longing for +revenge. Generous, kind of heart, noble-minded, he joined our evening +circles, and we loved him. We exchanged our dreams, our plans--our +poems. God gave him genius and inspiration. He stood always on the +heights and looked down on life. We talked of history and of nations. He +declared a time would come when races would forget all evil things--like +war, rebellion--and dwell together peaceably in one great family. We +listened to him eagerly for he had the gift of speech. After a while he +went away and we gave our blessing to him. Then we learned our +guest--spurred on by his revengeful race--had become our enemy. To +please that bitter race of his he filled his songs with hatred. Of our +beloved friend there came to us only revenge and angry thoughts. God +grant that peace may come again to his embittered heart!" + +Puschkin himself wrote eloquently of these same Crimean scenes that +Mickiewicz shows us. He, too, was inspired by the old capital city of +the Tartar rulers. We recall his "Fountain of Baktschi Serai." And he, +too, brings before our eyes again that gigantic mountain world of +southern Russia in "The Prisoner of the Caucasus." + +The fame of The Crimean Sonnets was so great that Mickiewicz was offered +a government position which attached him to the person of the powerful +Prince Galitzin, in Moscow. It was in Rome, and singularly enough it was +when he wrote the "Ode to Youth" that he began to devote himself to +mystical studies which had such an injurious effect upon his mind. For +some time after he had lost his fluent power as a poet, he retained his +conversational gifts which were remarkable and brought him almost as +much fame as his poetry. His life ended in a period as dramatic as that +in which it began. He entered the Turkish wars in 1855 and died in +Stamboul in that same year. It is somewhat peculiar and at the same time +no little to his credit that he should have chosen the sonnet as the +instrument of his quick sketching of Crimea on the trip of exile, +because the sonnet has never been a frequently chosen means of +expression of the Slav races, despite the numerous sonnets written later +by Vrchlicky, Preseren and others. The sonnet has belonged more to the +Latin races, and to the English race. The Crimean Sonnets, however, rank +among the famous sequences. + + Edna Worthley Underwood. + + + + +SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA + + +THE ACKERMAN STEPPE + +Across sea-meadows measureless I go, + My wagon sinking under grass so tall +The flowery petals in foam on me fall, + And blossom-isles float by I do not know. +No pathway can the deepening twilight show; + I seek the beckoning stars which sailors call, +And watch the clouds. What lies there brightening all? + The Dneister's, the steppe-ocean's evening glow! + +The silence! I can hear far flight of cranes-- + So far the eyes of eagle could not reach-- +And bees and blossoms speaking each to each; + The serpent slipping adown grassy lanes; +From my far home if word could come to me!-- + Yet none will come. On, o'er the meadow-sea! + + +BECALMED + +The flag is listless, limp. It dances not. + As deep the sea breathes from a gentle breast +As any bride who dreams at love's behest, + And wakes and sighs, then casts with dreams her lot. +Sails hang upon the masts--useless-forgot-- + Like folded standards which the warriors wrest +And bring home broken from the battle's crest. + The sailors rest them in some sheltered spot. + +O Sea! within your unknown deeps concealed, + When storms are wild, your monsters dream and sleep, +And all their cruelty for the sunlight keep. + Thus, Soul of Mine, in your sad deeps concealed +The monsters sleep--when wild are storms. They start + From out some blue sky's peace to seize my heart. + + +MOUNTAINS FROM THE KESLOV STEPPE + +(Pilgrim) + +What would Great Allah with the frozen sea? + Would he of icy clouds a throne carve bright, +Or would the demons of the deepest night + A bar build where the shining stars sweep free? +It gleams like pagan cities fired, kings flee. + When Day was anciently destroyed by Night +Did Allah amid chaos fix this light + To guide the star-worlds of eternity? + +(Mirza) + +Up there I've journeyed where the winter reigns, + And seen the rivers bitten black like lines +On Tschatir Dagh, where the white cloud reclines, + Which not the wildest eagle's shadow stains, +Where cradled under me the thunders sleep + And Allah and the stars their watches keep. + + +BAKTSCHI SERAI + +In ruin are the spacious, splendid halls + With frozen forest of white columns where +The Tartar Khan his palace builded fair, + Where loneliest the shrilling cricket calls. +The ivy blackens over shining walls + Enscribing in gigantic letters there +Some curse Belshazzar-like: Beware! Beware!-- + Then black as crepe from crested columns falls. + +Within the burnished banquet room there sings + The fountain of the harem pure and clear, +Just as of old it sang in twilights drear. + But whither love and fame speed--on what wings? +When all things else must perish these endure! + Yet both are gone! The fountain ripples pure. + + +BAKTSCHI SERAI BY NIGHT + +From out the mosques the pious wend their way; + Muezzin voices tremble through the night; +Within the sky the pallid King of Light + Wraps silvered ermine round him while he may, +And Heaven's harem greets its star array. + One lone white cloud rests in the azure height-- +A veiled court lady in some sorrow's plight-- + Whom cruel love and day have cast away. + +The mosques stand there; and here tall cypress trees; + There--mountains, towering, black as demons frown, +Which Lucifer in rage from God cast down. + Like sword blades lightning flickers over these, +And on an Arab steed the wild Khan rides + Who goes to Baktschi Serai which night hides. + +THE GRAVE OF COUNTESS POTOCKA + +In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose, + You faded and forgot the joy of youth; +Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth + Of bitter memory that stings and glows. +O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows, + How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth, +When she who loved you and lent you her youth + Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows? + +Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you. + Beside your grave a while pray let me rest +With other wanderers at some grief's behest. + The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true. +High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes, + Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose. + + +THE GRAVES OF THE HAREM + +They sleep well here whom Allah loved and kept + And treasured in his vineyard fair and fine, +Most lustrous of the Orient pearls that shine, + Which youth found where the waves of passion swept. +Here, where in peace perpetual they have slept, + A turban beckons where the roses twine, +A banner flutters out in silken line, + And sometimes here a Giaour's name is kept. + +Oh! roses of this paradise of old, + The eyes that loved not Allah saw you not, +Nor arms that prayed not eastward could enfold! + But now a Christian treads this hallowed spot; +Wise Allah, curse not him who bows his head + Amid the marble shrines of Allah's dead! + + +BAYDARY + +Give wings unto the storm, and spurs to steed, + I'd move unchained as wind across the world, +Sweep onward like a torrent mountain-hurled, + Nor sea, nor height, nor valley pause to heed. +The twilight spreads a dimness o'er our speed, + And shows the diamond-stars from hoofs up-whirled, +Since daylight now her curtained blue has juried, + And mystery and magic shadows breed. + +The earth sleeps, but not I--not I--not I-- + Who hasten to the shore where waves are loud +And toward me in the darkness whitely crowd. + Beneath them I would still my soul's deep cry-- +Like ships the whirlpools seize to drag to death-- + I'd plunge within the silence, sans thought, breath. + + +ALUSHTA BY DAY + +The mighty mountain flings its mist-veil down; + With little flowers the gracious fields are bright, +And from the forest colors flash to sight + Like gems that drop from off a Calif's crown. +Upon the meadows settles shimmering down + A band of butterflies in rainbow flight; +Cicadas call and call in day's delight, + And bees are dreaming in a blossom's crown. + +The waves beneath the cliff are thunder-pale, + Now upward, upward in their rage they rise +And tawny are their crests as tigers' eyes. + The sun is focused on one white, far sail +And on blue, shining deeps as smooth as glass + Wherein slim cranes are shadowed as they pass. + + +ALUSHTA BY NIGHT + +The drooping, weary day night pushed aside; + On Tschatir Dagh the sullen sun and low +Paints phantom purple upon ancient snow; + While forest ways within, the wanderers hide. +Night veils the mountains and the valleys wide; + The thunderous brooks are dream-held, dulled, and slow; +Beneath the blackness fragrant flowers blow + And rich leaf-music clothes each valley side. + +Almost my waking eyes are dream-held too; + With gold a meteor marks the deep-domed sky +And fountain-like the fiery sparks float by. + Oh! Beauty of the Eastern Night, you woo +My spirit like the odalisque, who held + Men captive till her kiss the dream dispelled! + + +TSCHATIR DAGH + +(Mirza) + +The reverent Mussulman bends low to greet + You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship! +World-altar,--minaret--the place where dip + Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet! +You guard the door of God in splendor meet, + Like Gabriel with holy sword on hip; +In bright mist mantled from the toe to lip, + Tour turban set with alien stars and sweet. + +If winter rule the world, or summer's sun, + If Giaour rage about, or winds are wild, +Above them, Tschatir Dagh, you, changeless one, + Are like to Allah, pure and undefiled; +Aloft you tower from out the lowly sod + To give to men again the will of God. + + +TSCHATIR DAGH + +(The Pilgrim) + +Below me half a world I see outspread; + Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow; +And yet the happy pulse of life is slow, + I dream of distant places, pleasures dead. +The woods of Lithuania I would tread + Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know; +Above the trembling marshland I would go + Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o'er head. + +A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart, + A longing for some peaceful, gentle place, +And memories of youthful love I trace. + Unto my childhood home I long to start, +And yet if all the leaves my name could cry + She would not pause nor heed as she passed by. + + +THE PASS ACROSS THE ABYSS IN THE TSCHUFUT-KALE + +(Mirza) + +Pray! Pray! Let loose the bridle. Look not down! + The humble horse alone has wisdom here. +He knows where blackest the abysses leer + And where the path in safety leads us down. +Pray, and look upward to the mountain's crown! + The deep below is endless where you peer; +Stretch not the hand out as you pass, for fear + The added weight of that might plunge you down. + +And check your thoughts' free flight, too, while you go; + Let all of Fancy's fluttering sails be furled +Here where Death watches o'er the riven world. + +(Pilgrim) + + I lived to cross the bridge of ancient snow! + But what I saw my tongue no more can tell, + The angels only could rehearse that well. + + +(MIRZA) + +Behold blue Heaven in that deep abyss! + The sea is that! Behold the long waves shine! +Watch how they rock that giant bird divine, + Whose swinging white wings wide horizons kiss. +Is that an iceberg in the blue abyss? + No, no--a cloud! Watch how 'tis veiling fine +The sea, the land, out-blotting every line + To drown it all in darkness soon I wis. + +The lightning comes now! Frightful is its sweep. + But softly--softly! Watch my spur--my whip! +I'll leap across unto that chasm's lip. + What still and chilling sternness great cliffs keep! +Down there light calls to me. Soon there I'll be. + Uncanny is such loneliness to me. + + +THE RUINS OF BALACLAVA + +Oh, thankless Crimean land! in ruin laid + Are now the castles that were once your pride! +Here serpents and the owls from daylight hide, + And robbers arm them for the nightly raid. +Upon the lettered marble boasts are made, + Brave words on battered arms in gold descried, +And broken splendor years have scattered wide, + Beside the dead who made them are arrayed. + +The Greek set shining, columned marble here. + The Latin put the Mongol horde to flight, +And Mussulmans prayed eastward morn and night. + The owl and vulture of dark wing and drear +Are fluttering like black banners overhead + In cities where the pest piles high the dead. + + +ON JUDA'S CLIFF + +On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look + On waves that battling beat and break with might, +While farther seaward in a bland delight, + I see them shining where a rainbow shook. +On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look + On waves that like sea-armies swing to sight, +To send upon the shore their billows white, + And, ebbing, to leave pearls in every nook. + +Thus, Poet, in your youth when storms are wild + And passions break upon the heart and brain, +To leave their ruin there--shipwreck and waste-- + Pick up your lute! Upon it undefiled +You'll find song-pearls that your heart-deeps retain, + The crown the years have brought you, white and chaste. + + +Here, then, end the Crimean Sonnets of the immortal hero of Polish +poetry, Adam Mickiezvicz as translated by Edna Worthley Underwood and +published by Paul Elder and Company at their Tomoye Press, in the city +of San Francisco, under the direction of Ricardo J. Orozco, their +printer during the month of August, nineteen seventeen + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sonnets from the Crimea, by Adam Mickiewicz + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA *** + +***** This file should be named 27069.txt or 27069.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/0/6/27069/ + +Produced by Jimmy O'Regan (This file was produced from +images generously made available by the University of +California Libraries/The Internet Archive) + + +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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