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diff --git a/78744-0.txt b/78744-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb819a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/78744-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4809 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78744 *** + + + + + РОССІЙСКАЯ АНТОЛОГІЯ. + + + SPECIMENS + + OF + + _THE RUSSIAN POETS_: + + + TRANSLATED BY + + JOHN BOWRING, F.L.S. + + + _Вамъ, вамъ плетутъ Хариты + Безамертные вѣнцы! + Я вами здѣсь вкушаю + Восторги Піеридъ, + И въ радости взываю: + О Музы! я Піитъ!_ + БАТЮШКОВЪ + + + WITH PRELIMINARY REMARKS AND + BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. + + SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. + + London: + PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR: + SOLD BY R. HUNTER, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD; + AND A. CONSTABLE AND CO., EDINBURGH. + + 1821. + + + + +[Illustration: ALBRE FLAMMAN printer’s mark.] + +PRINTED BY R. AND A. TAYLOR, + +SHOE-LANE, LONDON. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT + +TO + +THE SECOND EDITION. + + +The first edition of this work was published without any strong +expectations that it would excite attention. It has been received with +singular indulgence, nay with flattering encouragement, and I trust +it will be followed, at no distant period, by Specimens of the Poetry +of other nations, which is as yet a stranger to our literature and +language. + +The objects of this publication have been in a great degree answered. +Many of the Poets of Russia, whom I have ventured to introduce to my +countrymen, have met with a cordial welcome, and their claims have +been cheerfully admitted by the mighty arbiters of fame. For myself +I own, that my hopes of the future progress of that vast empire in +civilization and virtue and liberty have been greatly flattered, +greatly increased by the observations which this little volume has +served to elicit. + +It must not, however, be forgotten, that this is a representation of +nothing but the unformed and infant poetical literature of Russia. +That literature had its birth but yesterday, and certainly its present +strength and beauty give fair hope for to-morrow. In it are elements +of improvement, and buds and blossoms of future expectation. They +are scattered over “half a world,” and in due time will ripen, to +encourage, to console, and to stimulate myriads and millions. It will +then be an interesting task, to compare the maturer charms of Sclavonic +song, with these its earliest gems. + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS. + + + INTRODUCTION vii + + Derzhavin 1 + + Batiushkov 45 + + Lomonosov 65 + + Zhukovsky 71 + + Karamsin 103 + + Dmitriev 117 + + Krĭlov 129 + + Khemnitzer 135 + + Bobrov 145 + + Bogdanovich 163 + + Davĭdov 175 + + Kostrov 179 + + Neledinsky Meletzky 183 + + National Songs 192 + + Biographical and Critical Notices 203 + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +Few subjects can be more complacent to the philanthropist than to trace +the forward march of mind; peculiarly complacent where its progress is +neither slow nor doubtful; where the stream of light spreads widening +more and more over the whole surface of society; and more delightful +yet, where the first rays of twilight break out of the thick darkness +of long and dreary barbarism, and the day advances with sure and steady +steps. Such were the circumstances under which Russia presented itself +to my contemplation. It had emerged, as it were instantaneously, from +a night of ignorance, to occupy a situation in the world of intellect, +not contemptible, even when compared with that of southern nations; +but singularly striking as contrasted with the almost universal +ignorance which pervaded the immense empire of the Tzars, before Peter +the Great, the Russian Colossus, as one of their poets calls him, gave +it the first impulse towards civilization[1]. The foundation is now +laid, on which the proud edifice of civilization will be raised. The +moral _vis inertiæ_ is in action: and the immense political influence +which Russia has acquired, and seems likely to maintain, will be less +appalling, at all events, to the moralist, if not to the statesman, +than if wholly unaccompanied by a spirit of literature; while, on the +other hand, it is consolatory to remember, that every instance which +Russia affords of the advance of knowledge, is a pledge that the +blessings of freedom and good government, which follow in the train of +intellectual distinction, cannot be for ever shut out. + +Lomonosov[2] is the father of Russian poetry. It did not advance from +step to step through various gradations of improvement, but received +from his extraordinary genius an elevation and a purity which are +singularly opposed to the barbarous compositions which preceded him. +He did more than any other writer to fix the standard of language, and +wielded a then uncouth and unformed idiom with singular address and +power. A natural sense of harmony and beauty, made sublimer by early +contemplation of the prophetic and the poetical compositions of the +Old Testament, did more for his own fame, and for the future literary +reputation of his country, than could have resulted from the closest +acquaintance with the great names of Greece or Rome. His style is +singularly vigorous, and his works are distinguished throughout for +their bold and impressive character. They have been collected into six +volumes; and his name, as well as that of his rival Sumarokov, has +already found its way, with some particulars of his life and writings, +into our biographical dictionaries[3]. + +Sumarokov, whose productions are very voluminous, and were once +considered models of grace, beauty, and harmony, has been much +neglected of late years. His dramatic compositions are, for the most +part, gross and indecent; his contemptuous jealousy of Lomonosov, +though so greatly his superior, is often most ridiculously intruding +itself; but in one point of view, at least, he is entitled to +respect and gratitude. He is the eldest of the Russian fabulists; +the introducer of a species of composition, in which Russian poetry +possesses treasures more varied and more valuable than that of any +other nation. It is no mean praise to say, and it may be said truly, +that Russia can produce more than one rival of the delightful La +Fontaine. Of the dramatic writings of Sumarokov, the best is the +tragedy _Demitrĭj Samosvanelz_, or The False Demetrius[4], which has +been translated into English. + +Von Visin, who seems to have made Moliere his model, improved greatly +upon Sumarokov. His two most celebrated comedies are _Nedorosl_, The +Spoilt Youth, and _Brigadir_, The Brigadier[5]. + +Kheraskov holds a high rank among the lyric poets of Russia. He +died a few years ago. He was curator of the Moscow University. He +published a collection of his poems, which he entitled _Bakhariana, +ili Neisviëstnĭj_; Bachariana, or The Unknown; but his great work is +_Rossiada, ili Rasrushchenie Kasanij_; The Russiad, or The Destruction +of Kasan. + +But of all the poets of Russia, Derzhavin is in my conception entitled +to the very first place. His compositions breathe a high and sublime +spirit; they are full of inspiration. His versification is sonorous, +original, characteristic; his subjects generally such as allowed him +to give full scope to his ardent imagination and lofty conceptions. +Of modern poets, he most resembles Klopstock: his _Oda Bog_, Ode on +God, with the exception of some of the wonderful passages of the +Old Testament, “written with a pen of fire,” and glowing with the +brightness of heaven, passages of which Derzhavin has frequently +availed himself, is one of the most impressive and sublime addresses +I am acquainted with, on a subject so pre-eminently impressive and +sublime. The first poem which excited the public attention to him was +his _Felitza_. + +Bogdanovich has obtained the title of the Russian Anacreon. His +_Dushenka_ (Psyche) is a graceful and lovely poem. I mean at some +future time to give some extracts from this poem, with specimens of +the Russian epics, and longer poetical compositions, which I hope to +collect into one volume. He has also written several dramatic pieces. + +Bobrov was well acquainted with the literature of the South of Europe, +and has transfused many of its beauties into his native tongue. Our +English writers especially have given great assistance to his honest +plagiarism. His _Khersonida_, an oriental epic poem, is not so good as +_Lalla Rookh_, but it is very good notwithstanding. + +Kapnist has written on a variety of subjects--odes, songs, romances and +translations. + +The name of Kostrov closes the list of the most eminent among the +deceased poets of Russia. He died, not long ago, in the meridian of his +days. He had made an admirable translation of Homer, and was engaged in +a version of Ossian, which he left unfinished: the conclusion has since +been added by Gnœdich. + +Of all the living writers of Russia, or rather of all the writers +Russia ever produced, the most successful and the most popular is +Karamsin. Derzhavin called him long ago “the nightingale of poetry,” +but it is not to his poetry alone that he owes his fame. Standing on +the summit of modern literature in Russia, he has been loaded with +honours and distinctions, which, however, have not served to check his +wonted urbanity, or to chill his natural goodness of heart. When a +young writer, he was fond of imitating Sterne[6]; a very bad model, it +may be added, since the peculiarities which characterize him are only +tolerable because they are original. Karamsin’s style was then usually +abrupt and unnatural, and its sentimentality wearisome and affected. +But he has outlived his errors, and established his reputation on +their subjection. His great undertaking, the _Rossijskaje Istorije_ +(History of Russia), is, without comparison, the first and best +literary work which has been produced in the country it celebrates. It +was received with loud eulogiums throughout the Russian empire; it has +been translated into several European languages; and will probably long +maintain a pre-eminent rank among Russian classics, and become one of +the standard authorities of history[7]. + +The peculiar excellence of the Russian fabulists has been mentioned. +Sumarokov and Khemnitzer, Dmitriev and Krĭlov, are the most +distinguished among them. Dmitriev, who is still living at Moscow, has +published a great number of fables and ballads, besides translations +from the Latin and other languages. His style is easy, harmonious, and +energetic: some of his compositions have a sublimer character; his +religious poetry is dignified and solemn; his elegies are tender and +affecting. + +Krĭlov holds an office in the Imperial library at Petersburg. He is +well known to the _bons vivans_ of the English club. His heavy and +unwieldy appearance is singularly contrasted with the shrewdness and +the grace of his writings. He stings like a wasp, and flies laughingly +away, but always leaves his sting behind him. He has published one +volume of fables, remarkable for their spirit and originality. He now +employs himself in translating Herodotus, having, at an advanced period +of life, first entered on the study of the languages of ancient Greece +and Rome. + +Zhukovskij has printed some poetical translations of distinguished +merit from the German, French and English. Among these, his version +of Gray’s elegy is entitled to particular praise. For the sake of +comparison I give the epitaph. + + Sdœs’ pepel iunoshi besvremenno sokrĭli; + Chto slava, shchastie, ne snal on v mirœ sem! + No Musĭ ot nego litza ne otvratili, + I melankholii pechat’ bĭla na nem. + + On krotok serdtzem bĭl, chuvstvitelen dushoiu + Chuvstvitel’nĭm Tvoretz nagradu polozhil! + Daril neshchastnĭkh on--chœm tolko mog--slesoiu! + V nagradu ot Tvortza on druga poluchil! + + Prokhozhii, udalis’! vo grobœ son svjeshchennĭi! + Sud’ba pochivshikh v nem pokrĭta grosnoimgloi + Nadezha robkaje zhivit ikh pepel tlœnnĭi! + Kto snaet, kto nas zhdet sa grobovoi doskoi! + +This piece is one among very many translations from the English. The +following verse from Goldsmith’s Edwin and Angelina will be perhaps +recognised from its cadence alone. + + Voidikh v moi dom--sabot tam chuzhdĭ + Nœt blaga v suetœ! + Nam malĭje denĭ sdœs’ nuzhdĭ! + Na malĭi mig i nœ! + +His _Liudmilla_ (an imitation of Leonora) is deemed more beautiful +and forcible than the original itself. He has written on a variety of +subjects, and is now engaged as a companion to the Grand Dukes. + +I believe Batiushkov is now in Italy. He has published translations +from Tibullus and other classics. His most celebrated composition is +his Address to his Penates, which will be found in the present volume. +As it introduces in a very agreeable manner the most eminent of the +Russian poets, and contains some allusion to Russian manners, it will +not, I hope, be without interest to the English reader. + +There are many other names which the narrow limits of this volume will +not allow to be introduced at length. Mersljekov’s translations from +the Greek and Latin classics: those of Gnœdich, Knjezhnin, Milonov, +Volkov and Bunina from different sources: Rodsjenkai from Addison, and +many others, have produced an admirable effect upon the taste of the +nation, and given noble examples for the imitation of Russian bards. + +I can scarcely hope to satisfy those who are masters of Russian +literature. I have not always satisfied myself; for, far from any +feelings of self-complacency, to do full justice to some of the poets +of Russia has been beyond the compass of my powers. In the instance of +Bogdanovich, especially, the charm I have felt, I have not been able to +convey. + +No one can be more alive than I am to the extreme difficulty of +communicating to a foreign version the peculiar characters of the +original. The grace, the harmony, the happy arrangement, the striking +adaptation of words to ideas; every thing, in fact, except the +primary and naked thought, requires for its perfect communication +a genius equal to its first conception: and, in truth, there are +but few instances of enduring and deserved reputation dependent +only on successful poetical translations, unaided by the merits of +distinguished original works. + +One thing, however, is certain; I have intended no wrong,--I hope I +have done no wrong, to the names and to the works I now introduce to +my countrymen; I mean only to be an honest, conscientious interpreter. +Many of the charms of their compositions have probably escaped me: +their faults, I am afraid, are but too faithfully rendered; I have +discovered many, but I dared not meddle with them. + +The measure of the original has been generally preserved. This adhesion +to one of the distinguishing characters of poetical composition has +been made of late quite a point of conscience in Germany (a country +which possesses a greater number of excellent and faithful translations +than all the united world besides); and as far as the genius of the +language will admit, I hope it will become so in England[8]. It would +have been well if our early translators had been more honest and +correct in this particular--their aberrations have given a sort of +sanction to the wanderings of others. The future poets of Russia have +excellent precursors to study, especially as regards the fidelity of +their early versions. + +A few words on the peculiarities of the Russian language will not, +perhaps, be misplaced[9]. + +The mother-tongue of nearly forty millions of human beings, and which +in the course of thirteen centuries has undergone no radical change, is +indeed entitled to some attention. All Russian grammarians claim for +it an antiquity at least equal to that of the city of Novogorod. The +oldest written documents that exist are two treaties with the Greek +emperors, made by Oleg, A.D. 912, and Igor, A.D. 943. Christianity, +introduced into Russia at the beginning of the eleventh century by +Vladimir the Great, brought with it many words of Greek origin. The +Tartars added considerably to the vocabulary during the two centuries +of their domination. The intercourse which Peter the Great established +with foreign nations, increased it still more; and of late years a +great number of words have been amalgamated with it from the French, +German, and English. It is now one of the richest, if not the richest, +of all the European languages, and contains a multitude of words which +can only be expressed by compounds and redundant definitions in any +northern tongues. Schlözer calculates, that of the five hundred roots +on which the modern Russ is raised, three-fourths of the number are +derived from Greek, Latin, and German. Many are of Sans-crit origin, of +which Adelung published a list in 1811[10]. + +Printing was introduced into Russia about the middle of the sixteenth +century. The oldest printed book which has been discovered is a +Sclavonic Psalter, bearing the date Kiev, 1551; two years after, a +press was established in Moscow. The Sclavonic alphabet, said to have +been introduced by Cyrillus in the ninth century, consists of forty-two +letters. The modern Russ has only thirty-five: those unknown to the +English are as follows: + + Letters. Sounds and Orthography adopted. + Ж[11] zh. + Ф ph. + Х[12] kh (guttural). + Ц tz. + Ч ch (as in chance). + Ш sh. + Щ[13] shtsh, or shch. + Ы[14] ĭ (dull i). + Ъ[15] terminal. + Ь[16] ditto. + Ѣ[17] œ. + Ю[18] iu. + Я je. + +Besides these, there are several letters which seem almost identical as +to sound. + + Е and Э[19] for e. + И -- І[20] -- i. + С -- З[21] -- s. + +Of the above, + + Щ appears a compound of Ш and Ч. + Ю -------------------- І -- У. + Я -------------------- І -- Е. + +Ѳ (_theta_) and Ѵ (_upsilon_) form a part of the Russian alphabet, +but are seldom used. _h_[22], _c_[23], _x_[24], _f_[25], _w_[26], are +wanting altogether. + +The Russian language may be adapted to almost every species of +versification. It is flexible, harmonious, full of rhythmus, rich in +compounds, and possesses all the elements of poetry. From the following +examples in different measures, some idea may be formed of its natural +music. + + +ADONICS OF FIVE SYLLABLES. + + Ti dusha moje + Krasna dævitza, + Moje prezhnjeje + Poliu bovnitza[27]. + + +TROCHAICS OF SEVEN AND EIGHT SYLLABLES. + + Stónet sísoi gólu bóchik + Stónet ón i dén’ i nóch’; + Égo mílen’kói druzhéchik, + Otletœ’l daléko próch’[28]. + + _Derzhavin._ + + +IAMBICS OF SIX AND SEVEN SYLLABLES. + + Sakónĭ ó suzhdáiut, + Predmét moéi liubví: + No któ, o sérdtze! mózhet, + Protiv’it’sjé tebǽ[29]. + + _Karamsin._ + + +DACTYLICS OF SEVEN AND EIGHT SYLLABLES. + + Svǽri rabótĭ ne snaíut, + Ptítzĭ zhivút bes trudá; + Liúdi ne svǽri ne ptítzĭ, + Liúdi rabótoi zhiv`út[30]. + + _Karamsin._ + + +ALEXANDRINES. + + Bozhéstvennĭí metáll! krasjéshchíi ístukánov, + Zhivótvorjéshchajé dushá pustĭ´kh karmánov[31]. + + _Von Visin._ + + +HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS. + + Tám, tam sætóvat’ mnæ vés’væk moi! górestnii mráchnii + Kázhdĭi medlénnii den’, kázhduíus úzhasom nóch’[32]. + +Rimes are either masculine or feminine; the former have the accent on +the last syllable, the latter on the penultimate: + + Masculine. Feminine. + iskál lobóiu + stál krasóiu + tzár póru + tvár góru[33] + +The productions of the Russian press are no index to the national +cultivation. The great majority of that extensive empire are yet little +removed from the uncivilized and brutish state in which they were +left by the Ruriks and the Vladimirs of other times. Unfortunately, +society has few gradations; and there is no influence so unfriendly +to improvement, no state of things so hopeless, as that produced by a +domestic slavery built upon the habits of ages. In Russia, the next +step from absolute dependence is nobility; at least, the intermediate +classes are very inconsiderable. The strength, the intelligence, the +public and the private virtue, of our middling ranks, which serve so +admirably to cement the social edifice, are there wanting. All sympathy +is partial and exclusive. In _this_ country, the spirit of information, +wherever elicited, rapidly spreads over and glows in every link of +the electrical chain of society. It mounts aspiringly, if it have its +origin among the less privileged orders; and it descends through all +the beautiful gradations of rank, when it has its birth in the higher +circles: it is diffusive--it is all-enlightening. But in Russia, +however bright the flame, it is pent up, it cannot spread. The noble +associates with the noble: the slave herds with the slave; but man has +no communion with man. No spot is there, whether sacred to science or +to virtue, in which the “rich and poor” may “meet together,” equalized +though but for a moment, as if the common Father were indeed “the +Maker of all;” and assuredly the Russian nation can make no striking +progress in civilization till the terrible barriers which so completely +separate the different ranks are destroyed. The million, uninstructed +and unambitious, will, it is to be feared, be long held in the fetters +of vassalage. The personal interests of the ruling few are too clearly, +too fatally opposed to the melioration of the subject many, to allow +any thing to be hoped for from these Lords of the soil. There are, it +must be confessed, active minds, generous energies, at work; but where +is their influence seen? To lead such an immense nation through the +different stages of improvement, to rational and permanent liberty, +were indeed an object worthy of the most aspiring, the most glorious +ambition. It were an achievement not to be hailed by the blast of +trumpet, nor the roar of artillery; (the world, recovering from its +drunken infatuation, is well nigh weary of the unholy triumphs which +have been thus celebrated;) it were an achievement which would hand +down the name of him who should effect it to future ages, linked with +the gratitude, the virtue, the happiness, of successive and long +enduring generations. + +I must not, however, be misunderstood. The language of despondency, as +to the progressive improvement and ultimate civilization of Russia, +would be unwarrantable and insincere. If, in the vassalage which +depresses and degrades the most numerous class in that country, we +look in vain for any redeeming circumstance, to create or to encourage +the expectation of a speedy and considerable change; still there +is little fear of active opposition to the progress of truth and +knowledge, among the immense majority of the people; that is, among the +hereditary slaves. They are an inert, unintellectual mass, who, though +they will not probably make sufficient advances, under the present +system, to bring about any very perceptible improvement themselves, +will certainly be little disposed to take any measures in support of +an arbitrary system, or to offer any resistance to those changes whose +benign effects they would so speedily feel. But, as far as _they_ are +concerned, improvement must follow, rather than lead to, any important +melioration. A middle class, as yet neither numerous nor powerful, is +withal growing up in Russia; by and by, they will form the link between +the oppressor and the oppressed. The pride of the first will be brought +down; the ambition of the last will be excited. Bosoms will begin to +glow with hope and ardor, which are now frozen beneath the wintry touch +of bondage; and Russia, full as she is of the materials out of which +great minds are formed, may yet perhaps take her stand in intellectual +eminence among the nations of Europe, at no distant period. + + * * * * * + +For the interesting notices at the close of this volume I am indebted +to my illustrious friend Von Adelung. Thus to thank him is the least +return I can make. + + J. B. + + * * * * * + + I bore you from the regions of the north, + Where ye first blossom’d, flowers of poetry! + Now light your smiles and pour your incense forth + Beneath our Albion’s more benignant sky. + + I cull’d your garlands ’neath the polar star, + From the vast fields of everlasting snow, + Adventurous I transplant your beauties far:-- + Still breathe in fragrance, still in beauty glow. + + Within _our_ temple many a holy wreath, + Hallowed by genius and by time, is hung: + At our old altar many a bard has sung, + Whose music vibrates from the realms of death. + + I may not link your lowlier names with theirs-- + The giants of past ages:--but to bring + To our Parnassus one delightful thing, + Would gild my hopes and answer all my prayers. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] So an anonymous Russian poet: + + Russia and Russia’s strength lay hid in dreary night; + God said “Let Peter be!” and then they burst to light. + + +[2] or Broken Nose. + +[3] Under the engravings of Lomonosov an eulogium is sometimes found, +of which the following is a translation: + + Where Winter sits upon his throne of snow, + Thus spoke the bright Parnassian Deity: + “Another Pindar is created now, + The king of bards, the lord of music, he.” + And Russia’s bosom heaved with holy glow-- + “My Lomonosov! Pindar lives in thee!” + + +[4] The history of this extraordinary man may be found at length in +Coxe’s Travels, ii. 366-393. + +[5] I do not feel myself qualified to give an opinion on the present +state of the Russian Stage: but the translations represented there +from the French and German drama are of acknowledged merit; and many +original pieces have been of late produced, of which their literary men +speak with great delight and even enthusiasm. Ozerov is, I imagine, the +most eminent of their tragic poets. + +[6] Especially in his _Puteshestvennik_ (or Traveller). + +[7] The German translation is faithful, but heavy and ill-written. The +French, tolerably written, perhaps, but miserably incorrect; Karamsin +told me he had discovered two hundred errors in the first volume +alone. The Italian is a rendering from the French. As a proof of the +estimation in which Karamsin is held, I may mention that I learned at +Petersburg, that several thousand copies of this voluminous work were +distributed in a few weeks; and it was said, the author received fifty +thousand rubles for the copy-right of the second edition. + +[8] The merits of Shakespeare were never fully recognised till he was +clad in garments something like his own. There is generally no idea in +this country of the sublime and imposing character of the writings of +Klopstock, for they have never been presented to us in any thing like +their original form. If any one wish to study the freezing effect of +a translation made in conformity to what are called the prejudices, +or the habits of a people, let him read the Hamlet of Moratin; a man +confessedly of extraordinary talent; an original dramatic writer +of most distinguished success; and who has preserved a general +faithfulness to the sense of his author, even in this translation: let +him compare this, or any of the plays of Le Tourneur, or the choicest +passages of Ducis, with ten lines taken at random from Voss, or +Schlegel, and the argument will be fully understood. + +[9] It is a remarkable fact, that the first Russian Grammar ever +published was published in England. It was entitled H. W. Ludolfi +_Grammatica Russica, quæ continet et manuductionem quandam ad +Grammaticam Sclavonicam_. Oxon. 1696. + +[10] _Rapports entre les Langues Russe et Sans-crite._ + +[11] I have adopted _zh_ to convey the sound of this letter, though it +is sometimes rendered by j; it is nearly equivalent to the French _j_, +as in _jardin_, _jaune_; or to s and z in the English words, measure, +vision, azure. + +[12] A strong guttural; the Greek χ. + +[13] This is the letter which disfigures Russian words so much when +written in Roman characters. “I defend,” which has but seven letters +in the original, is thus conveyed by fourteen--_sashchishchaju_; +and much more awkwardly in the German system of orthography by +twenty--_saschtschischtschaju_. Its exact sound may be produced +by connecting together the two last syllables of the words +establi_sht-ch_urch. + +[14] The _shibboleth_ of the Russian alphabet. It is hardly ever well +pronounced by foreigners. It is a deep, indistinct articulation, +something like _i_ in _bill_. + +[15] A mere expletive; and yet so common that Schlözer says, to abandon +it would diminish the trouble and expense of writing and printing five +_per cent._ It occurs, on an average, fifty times among a thousand +letters. It can only be used as the termination of a syllable or a word. + +[16] This letter, which is also a terminal, gives to the consonant that +precedes it the sound which the French call _mouillé_, as in _ai_ll_e_, +_a_gn_eau_; like _gn_ or _gl_ in Italian; in Spanish the _ñ_ or _ll_. I +have adopted an apostrophe ’ when it is introduced. + +[17] The close _e_ of the French. + +[18] The English _u_, as in union, universe, always pronounced _iu_. + +[19] Is of modern introduction, and is used principally in the +beginning of words of foreign origin, as Edinburgh, Etymology. + +[20] The first of these is used before a consonant, the latter before a +vowel. + +[21] С is the sharp s or ss, as in lass: З the soft single s, as +usually pronounced in the middle of words; _e.g._ muse. + +[22] H, where it occurs in foreign words, is rendered by Г, _g_. + +[23] C, is in fact an expletive in all languages. + +[24] X, is always written ks, _v. g._ Aleksandr (Alexander). + +[25] F, is conveyed usually by the Ф (ph), sometimes by the В (v). + +[26] The Germans use their W for the Russian В, which latter is in +fact the English _v_. This letter might in English, as in Russian, +conveniently stand in the alphabet next to B. It is a second B, a +letter which in all times has been constantly confounded with it. In +Spanish the two letters are used almost indifferently. + +[27] + + Thou my sweet spirit, + Beautiful maiden! + Thou my fair empress, + Queen of my bosom! + + +[28] + + Deeply sighs the little wood-dove, + Deeply sighs he day and night; + His beloved heart-companion + Far away has wing’d her flight. + + +[29] + + But law’s imposing fetters + My burning love restrain: + Yet who, O heart! could ever + O’er thee a victory gain? + + +[30] + + Beasts of the field never labour, + Birds of the forest repose; + Man, neither one nor the other, + Man is appointed to toil. + + +[31] + + Thou godlike metal gold! that mov’st the very statues, + And to an empty purse canst give a living spirit. + + +[32] + + There, there do I wear out life’s pilgrimage, sorrowing and dreary, + While the day in its misery rolls, and the terrible night. + + +[33] The best Russian Grammar I have met with is Tappe’s +_Theoretisch-praktische Russische Sprachlehre_. I have availed myself +of it for many of the preceding observations. + + + + +_RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY._ + + + + +DERZHAVIN. + + +GOD[1]. + + O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright + All space doth occupy, all motion guide; + Unchanged through time’s all-devastating flight; + Thou only God! There is no God beside! + Being above all beings! Three in One! + Whom none can comprehend and none explore; + Who fill’st existence with _Thyself_ alone: + Embracing all,--supporting,--ruling o’er,-- + Being whom we call GOD--and know no more[2]! + + In its sublime research, philosophy + May measure out the ocean-deep--may count + The sands or the sun’s rays--but, God! for Thee + There is no weight nor measure:--none can mount + Up to Thy mysteries; Reason’s brightest spark, + Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try + To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: + And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, + Even like past moments in eternity. + + Thou from primeval nothingness didst call + First chaos, then existence;--Lord! on Thee + Eternity had its foundation:--all + Sprung forth from Thee:--of light, joy, harmony, + Sole origin:--all life, all beauty Thine. + Thy word created all, and doth create; + Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. + Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great! + Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! + + Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround: + Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! + Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, + And beautifully mingled life and death! + As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze, + So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; + And as the spangles in the sunny rays + Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry + Of heaven’s bright army glitters in Thy praise[3]. + + A million torches lighted by Thy hand + Wander unwearied through the blue abyss: + They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command; + All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. + What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light-- + A glorious company of golden streams-- + Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-- + Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? + But Thou to these art as the noon to night. + + Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, + All this magnificence in Thee is lost:-- + What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? + And what am _I_ then? Heaven’s unnumber’d host, + Though multiplied by myriads, and array’d + In all the glory of sublimest thought; + Is but an atom in the balance weigh’d + Against Thy greatness; is a cypher brought + Against infinity! What am I then? Nought! + + Nought! But the effluence of Thy light divine, + Pervading worlds, hath reach’d my bosom too; + Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine + As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew. + Nought! but I live, and on hope’s pinions fly + Eager towards Thy presence; for in Thee + I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, + Even to the throne of Thy divinity. + I am, O God! and surely _Thou_ must be! + + Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art! + Direct my understanding then to Thee; + Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart: + Though but an atom midst immensity, + Still I am something, fashion’d by Thy hand! + I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth, + On the last verge of mortal being stand, + Close to the realms where angels have their birth, + Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! + + The chain of being is complete in me; + In me is matter’s last gradation lost, + And the next step is spirit--Deity! + I can command the lightning, and am dust! + A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god! + Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously + Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod + Lives surely through some higher energy; + For from itself alone it could not be! + + Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word + Created _me_! Thou source of life and good! + Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! + Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude + Fill’d me with an immortal soul, to spring + Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear + The garments of eternal day, and wing + Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, + Even to its source--to Thee--its Author there. + + O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! + Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, + Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, + And waft its homage to Thy Deity. + God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar; + Thus seek Thy presence--Being wise and good! + Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; + And when the tongue is eloquent no more, + The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. + + +ON THE DEATH OF MESHCHERSKY. + + Ah! that funereal toll! loud tongue of time! + What woes are centred in that frightful sound! + It calls! it calls me with a voice sublime, + To the lone chambers of the burial ground. + My life’s first footsteps are midst yawning graves; + A pale, teeth-clattering spectre passes nigh; + A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves, + Mows down man’s days like grass, and hurries by. + + Nought his untired rapacity can cloy: + Monarchs and slaves are all the earth-worm’s food; + And the wild-raging elements destroy + Even the recording tomb. Vicissitude + Devours the pride of glory; as the sea + Insatiate drinks the waters, so our days + And years are lost in deep eternity; + Cities and empires vandal death decays. + + We tremble on the borders of the abyss, + And giddy totter headlong from on high; + For death with life our common portion is, + And man is only born that he may die. + Death knows no sympathy; he tramples on + All tenderness--extinguishes the stars-- + Tears from the firmament the glowing sun, + And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. + + But mortal man forgets mortality! + His dreams crowd ages into life’s short day;-- + While, like a midnight robber stealing by, + Death plunders time by hour and hour away. + When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh; + Where most secure we seem, he loves to come: + Less swift than he, the bolts of thunder fly, + Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. + + Thou son of luxury! child of dance and song, + O whither, whither is thy spirit fled? + On life’s dull sea thy bark delayed not long, + But sought the silent haven of the dead. + Here is thy dust! Thy spirit is not here! + _Where_ is it? There. _Where_ there? ’tis all unknown: + We weep and sigh--alas! we know not _where_! + For man is doubt and darkness’ eldest son. + + Where love and joy and health and worldly good, + And all life’s pleasures in their splendor glow; + He dries the nerves up, he congeals the blood, + And shakes the very soul with mighty woe. + The songs of joy are funeral cries become-- + And luxury’s board is cover’d with a pall-- + The chamber of the banquet is a tomb: + Death, the pale autocrat, he rules o’er all. + + He rules o’er all--and him must kings obey, + Whose will no counsel knows and no control; + The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, + Who stand like pillars in a tyrant’s hall. + Beauty and beauty’s charms are nought to him, + Man’s intellect is crush’d by his decrees; + Man’s brightest light his dreadful frown can dim-- + He whets his scythe with trophies such as these. + + Death makes all nature tremble! What are we? + To-morrow dust, though almost gods to-day! + A mixture strange of pride and poverty: + Now basking in hope’s fair and gladdening ray; + To-morrow--what is man to-morrow? Nought! + How swiftly rolls the never-tarrying stream, + Hour after hour to gloomy chaos brought; + While ages dawn and vanish like a dream! + + Even like an infant’s sweet imagining, + My early, lovely spring-tide hurried on: + Beauty just smiled and sported--then took wing; + Joy laugh’d a moment and then joy was gone. + Now less susceptible of bliss, less blest, + Wiser and worldlier, panting for a name; + With a vain thirst of honour, pain’d, opprest, + I labour wearied up the hill of fame. + + But manhood too and manhood’s care will pass, + And glory’s struggles be ere long forgot; + For fame, like wealth, has busy wings, alas! + And joy’s and sorrow’s sound will move us not. + Begone, ye vain pursuits, ye dreams of bliss, + Changing and false, no longer flatter me! + I stand upon the sepulchre’s abyss, + In the dark portal of eternity. + + To-day, my friend! _may_ bring our final doom; + If not to-day, to-morrow surely _will_: + Why look we sadly on Meshchersky’s tomb? + Here he was happy--he is happy still! + Life was not given for ages to endure, + But virtue on death’s bosom finds her rest; + And know--a spirit order’d well and pure, + May make life’s sorrows and life’s changes blest. + + +THE WATERFALL. + + Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright, + Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall + Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light: + They sink, they rise, and sparkling cover all + With infinite refulgence; while its song, + Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along-- + + Rolls through the woods--they send its accents back, + Whose last vibration in the desert dies: + Its radiance glances o’er the watery track, + Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies + Beneath the forest-shade; then sweetly flows + A milky stream, all silent, as it goes. + + Its foam is scattered on the margent bound, + Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum + Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound, + Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come + On the fast-travelling breeze! O no! no voice + Is heard around, but thy majestic noise! + + When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder, + In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb; + When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder, + As sands they sink into thy mighty womb: + The ice that would imprison thy proud tide, + Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide. + + The fierce wolf prowls around thee--there he stands + Listening--not fearful, for he nothing fears: + His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands, + Like bristles o’er him his course fur he rears; + Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats, + And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats. + + The wild stag hears thy falling waters’ sound, + And tremblingly flies forward--o’er her back + She bends her stately horns--the noiseless ground + Her hurried feet impress not--and her track + Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze, + And the leaves falling from the rustling trees. + + The wild horse thee approaches in his turn: + He changes not his proudly rapid stride; + His mane stands up erect--his nostrils burn-- + He snorts--he pricks his ears--and starts aside; + Then rushing madly forward to thy steep, + He dashes down into thy torrents deep. + + Beneath the cedar, in abstraction sunk, + Close to thine awful pile of majesty, + On yonder old and mouldering moss-bound trunk, + That hangs upon the cliff’s rude edge, I see + An old man, on whose forehead winter’s snow + Is scattered, and his hand supports his brow. + + The lance, the sword, the ample shield beneath + Lie at his feet obscured by spreading rust; + His casque is circled by an ivy wreath-- + Those arms were once his country’s pride and trust: + And yet upon his golden breast-plate plays + The gentle brightness of the sunset rays. + + He sits, and muses on the rapid stream, + While deep thoughts struggling from his bosom rise: + “Emblem of man! here brightly pictured seem + The world’s gay scenery and its pageantries, + Which, as delusive as thy shining wave, + Glow for the proud, the coward and the slave. + + So is our little stream of life poured out, + In the wild turbulence of passion: so, + Midst glory’s glance and victory’s thunder-shout, + The joys of life in hurried exile go-- + Till hope’s fair smile and beauty’s ray of light + Are shrouded in the griefs and storms of night. + + Day after day prepares the funeral shroud; + The world is gray with age:--the striking hour + Is but an echo of death’s summons loud-- + The jarring of the dark grave’s prison door: + Into its deep abyss--devouring all-- + Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall. + + Aye! they must fall! see that unconquered one + Midst Rome’s high senate--hark! his deeds they tell: + He stretch’d his hand to seize the proffered crown; + His mantle veiled his countenance--he fell. + Where are the schemes, the hopes that dazzled him? + Those eyes, aspiring to a throne, are dim[4]. + + Aye! they must fall! another hero see, + From triumph’s golden chariot fortune flings: + The proudest son of magnanimity, + Who scorned the purple robe:--ev’n he whom kings + Looked to with reverence: he in prison dies, + Heaven’s light extinguished in his vacant eyes[5]. + + Aye! they must fall! as I have fallen--I, + Whom late with flowery wreaths the cities crown’d; + And dazzling phantoms played so smilingly + Midst laurels, olive-branches waving round; + ’Tis past--’tis past--for in the battle now + My hand no lightnings at the foe can throw. + + My strength abandons me; the tempest’s roar + Hath in its fury borne my lance away: + My spirit rises proudly as before, + But triumph hides her false and treacherous ray.” + He spake--he slumbered, wearied and opprest; + And Morpheus o’er him waved his wings of rest. + + A wintry darkness visited the world, + Borne on the raven-pinions of the night; + Nothing is heard but thy loud torrents, hurled + Down in their fierceness from the o’erhanging height; + They dash in fury ’gainst the echoing rock, + Even with an Alpine avalanche’s shock. + + The desert is as gloomy as the grave; + The mountains seem all wrapt in solemn sleep; + The clouds are rolling by, like wave on wave, + In silent majesty across heaven’s deep. + But see, the pale-faced melancholy moon + Looks tremblingly from her exalted throne: + + She look’d out tremblingly, and soon withdrew + Her terror-stricken horns: the old man lay + Sleeping in sweet tranquillity: she knew + Her mighty foe--she knew, and slunk away: + She dared not look on that old man, for he + Was the world’s glory and her enemy[6]. + + He slumber’d; glorious were his hero-dreams! + And wondrous visions floated round his eye: + While near, the sleeping bolt of thunder seems + To wait from him its awful destiny. + Ten thousand warriors armed around him stand, + And silently attend his high command. + + His finger points! the loud artillery’s fire + Follows! a sudden trembling shakes the ground; + Army on army, in their proud attire, + Cover the vales, the hills, the plains around; + They rise like mountains o’er the distant sea, + When from the sunny ray the vapours flee. + + His footsteps now imprint the dewy grass; + There early morning opens on his view, + Amidst the dust, th’ innumerable mass + Of enemies: he looks their squadrons through, + And reads the secrets of their vast array, + Even as an eagle soaring o’er his prey. + + Then like a Magus in his dark retreat + He calls his spirits round him; gathering those + And scattering these, with prudence infinite, + Thro’ valleys, plains, and mountains; then he throws + O’er all a mantle of omnipotence, + While the storm bursts with furious vehemence. + + The eagle’s daring, and the crescent’s pride, + There, by the ebony and the amber sea[7], + He humbles; and, by the evening’s golden side[8], + Subdues the golden fleece and Kolkhidi. + A thousand trophies of victorious war + Redeem the losses of the snowy tzar[9]: + + Like the vermilion ray on morning’s wings, + His triumphs o’er admiring nations beam: + Emperors and empires, heroes, kingdoms, kings, + Unite to praise, unite to honour him, + And raise above his glory-circled head + A laurelled, time-enduring pyramid. + + His name, his deeds through hurrying years appear + Bright as the sun-beams on the mountain’s brow, + Dazzling the world with splendor: waving there + Garlands of radiance-giving laurels glow; + Their rays shall animate the future fight, + And fill the brave one’s breast with hope and light. + + Envy, disarmed before his piercing glance, + Bends down her head to earth, and hurries by; + Crawls trembling to her vile retreat askance-- + She cannot bear the lightnings of his eye. + Go, envy, to thy dark and deep abyss! + What deeds, what fame can be compared to his? + + He slumbers midst these images; but now + He hears the howling dogs--the trembling trees; + The vulture’s cries, the screech-owl’s voice of woe, + And the fierce raging of the turbulent breeze; + The wild beasts’ roaring from their distant lair, + And shadowy spirits fill the troubled air. + + The oaks are shivered by the maddened storm; + Armies of ravens flap their funeral wings; + The stony mountain shakes its giant form, + And bursts, with terrible re-echoings: + From rock to rock ’tis vibrated around, + And thunders thunder back the thundering sound[10]. + + A winged woman, clad in sable weeds, + Her long hair scattered by the winds, was there, + Like one with dreadful, deathful news that speeds: + She waved a scythe-like weapon in the air, + And held a golden trump; she called “Arise,” + And her loud voice was echoed through the skies. + + See on her casque the frowning eagle rest, + Grasping the fearful thunderbolt: he bears + His country’s shield upon his noble breast. + The old man waked; he shed a shower of tears; + He sighed, and bent his venerable head, + Uttering--“Some hero surely must be dead. + + Happy if always combating for right + When combating with glory: happy he + Whose sword knew mercy in the bloodiest fight, + His shield an Ægis for an enemy. + Centuries to come shall celebrate his fame, + And ‘Friend of Man’ shall be his noblest name. + + Dear let his memory be, and proud his grave, + And this his epitaph!--‘He lived, he fought + For truth and wisdom: foremost of the brave, + Him glory’s idle glances dazzled not; + ’Twas his ambition, generous and great, + A life to life’s great end to consecrate!’ + + O glory! glory! mighty one on earth! + How justly imaged in this waterfall! + So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth, + Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all, + While hurrying thus sublimely from thy height, + Majestic, thundering, beautiful and bright. + + How many a wondering eye is turned to thee, + In admiration lost;--short-sighted men! + Thy furious wave gives no fertility; + Thy waters, rolling fiercely through the plain, + Bring nought but devastation and distress, + And leave the flowery vale a wilderness. + + O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill, + Watering with steps serene the field, the grove; + Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still + As shepherd’s pipe, or song of youthful love. + It has no _thundering_ torrent, but it flows + Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes. + + To the wild mountain let the wanderer come, + And, resting on the turf, look round and see, + With sadden’d eye, the green and grassy tomb, + And hear its monitory language: he-- + He sleeps below, not famed in war alone; + The great, the good, the generous-minded one. + + O be immortal, warlike hero! Thou + Hast done thy duty--all thy duty here.” + So said the old man crowned with locks of snow: + He looked to heaven, then stood in silence there,-- + In silence, but the echoes caught the sound, + And filled the listening scenery around. + + Who glances there along the mountain’s side, + Just like the moon upon the darkest wave? + What shadow flits across the midnight tide, + Gleaming as if from heaven? The pitchy grave + Is brighter than that gloomy brow, ’tis clad + In deep and desolate abstraction sad! + + What wondrous spirit from the north descends? + The winds are swift, but cannot follow him: + Nation on nation struck with terror bends; + His voice is thunder; starry glories gleam + Around him, and his glancing footsteps bright + Scatter a thousand thousand rays of light. + + His body, like a dark and gloomy shade, + On midnight’s melancholy bosom lies: + A coarse and heavy garment round him laid, + And thickening films are gathering round his eyes: + His icy fingers press his bosom chill, + His lips are opened wide, but all is still. + + His bed, the earth: his roof, the azure sky: + His palace, yonder desert stretching wide. + Art _thou_ the son of fame and luxury? + The prince of Tavrid? from thy height of pride + Fallen so low and lonely? and is this + But one dark step from glory and from bliss? + + Wert thou the favourite of the northern throne, + Minerva’s[11] favourite? Wert thou he that trod + The Muse’s temple--thou, Apollo’s son, + The pride of Mars--thou, on whose mighty nod + Both peace and war stood waiting; nobly great, + Not clad in purple, but a potentate? + + What! art thou he that cradled and uprear’d + The Russian’s prowess--Catherine’s energy? + Sustain’d by her, thy thunderbolt was heard + Rolling through distant lands its majesty; + And to the everlasting heights was hurl’d, + Whence Rome sent forth her mandates to the world. + + Art thou not he who bade the robber yield; + Scatter’d the pirate herds the desert o’er, + And bade the city flourish and the field, + Where all was waste and barrenness before; + Sprinkled with ships the Euxine--while the shore + Even of the tropics heard thy cannons’ roar? + + Wert thou the great, the glorious one, who knew + With martial fire the hero Russ to fill; + Taught him the very elements to subdue, + In burning Ochakov and Ismahil: + With eagle-daring, eagle-strength inspired; + While valour looked and wondered and admired? + + ’Tis he, the hardiest of mortals; he, + Sublimely soaring, takes his flight alone, + Creator of his own proud destiny: + No footstep near him--that bright path his own. + Thy fame, Potemkin, shall in glory glow, + While everlasting ages lingering flow. + + Beauty and art and knowledge raised to him + Triumphal arches: smiling fortune wove + Myrtle and laurel-wreaths, and victory’s beam + Lighted them up with brightness: joy and love + Play’d round thy flow’ry footsteps: pleasure, pride + Walk’d in majestic glory at thy side. + + ’Tis he, ’tis he to whom the poet brought + His offerings lighted with the Muse’s fire: + Thundering with Pindar’s majesty of thought, + And breathing all the sweetness of the lyre, + I sang the victories of Ismahil; + But thou wert gone--the poet’s lyre was still. + + Alas! ’twas then a vain and voiceless shell: + Or, if it spoke, its tone was but despair; + From my weak hands it fell, in dust it fell, + My eye was dimmed by the fast-falling tear: + I stood the stars of paradise beneath[12], + But all was darkness, desolation, death! + + ’Tis still, where all was eloquent with thee: + The thunders of thy fame have rolled away; + Thy orphan’d armies wail their misery; + The ear is wearied with their plaintive lay. + ’Twas brightness all, with joy and beauty bright, + But now ’tis night, ’tis desolation’s night. + + Thy laurel crown is faded in its pride: + Thy sparkling _Bulava_[13] is broken now; + Thy half-sheathed sword hangs useless at thy side; + And Catherine mourns her woe, her more than woe: + He fell; his mighty, unexpected fall + Shook, like an earthquake, the terrestrial ball. + + Peace brought her fresh green laurel branches; saw + His fall, and from her hands the garland fell. + She heard the voice of wretchedness and woe; + The Muses joined to sing a funeral knell + Around the tomb of Pericles:--the strain + Of Maro wept Macænas’ fate again[14]. + + His was a kingdom full of light: a throne + Of more than regal glory was his seat: + A rosy-silver steed convey’d him on-- + A splendour-glancing phaeton at his feet: + Proudest of all the proud equestrians he-- + He fell:--in death’s dull, dark obscurity. + + O! what is human glory, human pride? + What are man’s triumphs when they brightest seem? + What art thou, mighty one! though deified? + Methusalem’s long pilgrimage, a dream; + Our age is but a shade, our life a tale, + A vacant fancy, or a passing gale, + + Or nothing! ’Tis a heavy hollow ball, + Suspended on a slender, subtle hair, + And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions, all + Struggling within in furious tumult there. + Strange mystery! man’s gentlest breath can shake it, + And the light zephyrs are enough to break it. + + But a few hours, or moments, and beneath + Empires are buried in a night of gloom: + The very elements are leagued with death, + A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb. + Where is the mighty one? He is not found, + His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground! + + The dust of heroes? No! their glories rise + Triumphant upwards, spreading living light + And pure imperishable memories + Through ages of forgetfulness and night: + Flowers shining on time’s wintry mountain side; + Potemkin could not die--he has not died! + + His theatre was th’ Euxine’s distant shore, + His temple, thankful hearts: the glorious hand + That crowns him, Catherine’s: glancing, dazzling o’er + Was fame’s all-eloquent, triumphant band. + Life was a list of triumphs, and his head + Beneath a tomb-stone, reared by love, was laid. + + When the red morn breaks trembling o’er the dew, + And through the woods the wild winds whistle shrill; + When the dark Danube wears a bloody hue-- + Then is the name oft heard of Ismahil, + And oft a gloomy voice is echoed then, + Through twilight, “Say what means the Saracen?” + + He trembles, and his eye is dimmed with fear, + The arms he dreads are sparkling in the sun; + And forty thousand Moslems dying there, + Are the proud trophies of the northern one. + Their shades, like frighted spectres, glide before, + And the Russ stands in streams of human gore. + + He trembles, and looks upwards, but the skies + Are covered with portentous omens dire; + Dark visions from the sea of Tavrid rise, + And the land shakes with heaven’s excited ire: + Ochakov pours anew her sanguine flood, + And terror seems to freeze that tide of blood. + + As through the fluid brightness of the sea, + Beneath the welkin’s sunny canopy, + The tenants of the waves glide joyfully; + So o’er the Leman’s face our squadrons fly, + Their swell’d sails bursting with the winds, they tell + How proud the ambition of the Russ can swell. + + Ours is unutterable triumph now, + Theirs fears and apprehensions: on the tomb + That shields _their_ heroes, thorns and mosses grow; + Laurels and roses o’er _our_ heroes bloom. + _Our_ glory-girded mausoleums stand + O’er conquerors of the ocean and the land. + + When the sun sinks at evening’s calmest close, + Love sorrowfully sits: the breeze of spring + Across the melancholy harp-strings blows, + And spreads around its deep notes sorrowing: + Sighs from his bosom burst, and tears are shed + Upon the sleeping hero’s sculptured bed. + + And ere the morning gilds the distant hill, + And o’er the golden tomb the sunbeams play; + While yet the wild deer sleeps; and night winds shrill + Wind round the mountain’s side; the old man gray + Hangs o’er the monument in secret gloom, + And reads, “Potemkin’s consecrated tomb!” + + Manes of Alcibiades! so low, + That even the earth-worm joys in their decay: + There lies the casque that bound Achilles’ brow; + The shepherd finds it--bears that casque away + On his base forehead! Does it matter? Nay! + The victor sleeps--his glory? wrapt in clay! + + But gratitude still lives and loves to cherish + The patriot’s virtues, while the soul of song + In sacred tones, that never never perish, + Fame’s everlasting thunder bears along; + The lyre has an eternal voice--of all + That’s holy, holiest is the good man’s pall. + + List then, ye worldly waterfalls! Vain men, + Whose brains are dizzy with ambition; bright + Your swords--your garments flow’ry like a plain + In the spring time--if truth be your delight + And virtue your devotion, let your sword + Be bared alone at wisdom’s sacred word. + + Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice + Even to the clouded regions of the skies: + Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice, + Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes; + Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory + Receives a freshness and a strength from thee. + + Roll on! no clouds shall on thy waters lie + Darkling: no gloomy thunder-tempest break + Over thy face: let the black night-dews fly + Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak + In distance and in nearness: be it thine + To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine. + + Thou parent of the waterfall! proud river! + Thou northern thunderer, Suna! hurrying on + In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever + Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun, + Now dashing from the mountain to the plain, + And scattering purple fire and sapphire rain. + + ’Tis momentary vehemence: thy course + Is calm and soft and silent; clear and deep + Thy stately waters roll: in the proud force + Of unpretending majesty, they sweep + The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly, + Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea. + + Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed, + Washes the golden banks that o’er thee smile; + Until the clear Onega drinks its tide, + And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil: + O what a sweet and soul-composing scene, + Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene! + + +THE LORD AND THE JUDGE[15]. + + The God of heaven stood up, and loudly + Thus to the gods of earth he spoke: + “How long shall folly triumph proudly, + And virtue wear its heavy yoke? + + ’Tis yours, however high the wronger, + The wrongs of misery to redress; + Defend the weaker from the stronger, + Widow and orphan shield and bless. + + To guard the naked head of sorrow, + To make the path of wisdom light; + To free the prisoner; and to borrow + My attributes for _truth_ and _right_.” + + They _will_ not hear, see, know--O never; + Dark mists are on their vision thrown. + And shall the sick earth groan for ever? + Wilt Thou not tire, long-suffering one? + + Kings! gods of earth! no earthly being + May bid you at his bar appear; + Yet there is _One_ all-knowing--seeing-- + Who sits in sternest judgement there. + + Proud as ye are, your gems imperial + Shall fall like leaves:--your kingdoms--graves; + Your martial pomp--a pall funereal; + Your throne--looked down on by your slaves. + + God of the righteous! God, arise Thee! + Hear the faint prayers Thy children bring! + Judge, scatter all who dare despise Thee, + And be the earth’s unrivalled King! + + +ON THE DEATH OF COUNT ORLOV. + + What do I hear? An eagle from heaven’s cloudy sea, + Midst the high-towering hosts that swam + Before Minerva’s steps, when she + To earth from proud Olympus came: + That eagle, sailing in its state, + Heralding Russia’s naval might, + Pierced by the fatal spear of fate, + Falls rustling from the glorious height! + + Alas! alas! whither his flight through heaven’s blue vault? + Where is his path on ocean’s deep? + Where is his fearful thunderbolt? + Where do his forked lightnings sleep? + Where is the bosom nought could fright, + The piercing, penetrating mind; + ’Tis all, ’tis all enshrined in night; + He left us but his fame behind! + + +SONG. + + Golden bee! for ever sighing, + Round and round my Delia flying; + Ever in attendance near her: + Dost thou really love her, fear her, + Dost thou love her, + Golden bee? + + Erring insect! he supposes, + That her lips are morning roses: + Breathing sweets from Delia’s tresses, + He would probe their fair recesses. + Purest sugar + Is her breast! + + Golden bee! for ever sighing, + Ever round my Delia flying; + Is it thou so softly speaking? + Thine the gentle accents breaking, + “Drink I dare not, + Lest I die!” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] This is the poem of which Golovnin says in his narrative, that it +has been rendered into Japanese, by order of the emperor, and is hung +up, embroidered with gold, in the Temple of Jeddo. I learn from the +periodicals, that an honour something similar has been done in China +to the same poem. It has been translated into the Chinese and Tartar +languages, written on a piece of rich silk, and suspended in the +imperial palace at Pekin. + +[2] In the first edition there was a deviation from the original in +this verse. A translator is bound not to alter the sense of his author, +and I had certainly exceeded the limits which are in any case allowed. +I have been reproved for the variation I had introduced. The reproof +was just, and might have been more severe. + +[3] The force of this simile can hardly be imagined by those who have +never witnessed the sun shining, with unclouded splendor, in a cold +of twenty or thirty degrees of Reaumur. A thousand and ten thousand +sparkling stars of ice, brighter than the brightest diamond, play on +the surface of the frozen snow; while the slightest breeze sets myriads +of icy atoms in motion, whose glancing light and beautiful rainbow-hues +dazzle and weary the eye. + +[4] Julius Cæsar. + +[5] Belisarius, who, by the way, is the subject of many Russian Poems. + +[6] It is scarcely necessary to explain, that Romanzov is the old hero +whom the poet means to depicture, and that these stanzas refer to his +victories over the Turks. To Romanzov a long and laudatory poem was +addressed from London by Petrov in celebration of these successes. + +I must here disclaim all sympathies with the poet in the admiration he +expresses of the warlike character. The victims of the executioner are +at all events doomed to death by the forms and with the solemnities +of justice. Those of the conqueror hurry into another world under the +influence of crimes and passions which, while indeed they unfit them +for this, will serve but as a fearful passport for eternity. I should +as soon think of celebrating the carousals of a horde of cannibals, as +of giving the attractions and decorations of song to those dreadful +scenes of sin and misery which men call victories: and I blush for my +country and for my race when I reflect, that in the very proportion +of the wickedness implied, and the wretchedness produced, are they +made the subjects of pride and congratulation, and honoured with the +designations “great” and “glorious!” Man was surely born to nobler and +better things than these. + +[7] “The ebony and amber sea”--the Euxine and the Caspian. + +[8] “Evening’s side”--the west. + +[9] The white czar (bæloi tzar), a common appellation of the Russian +emperor. + +[10] Original: + + Grokhochet ekho po goram + Kak grom gremjeshchij po gromam. + + +[11] Catherine.--This was one of her favourite titles; and in the +character and dress of Minerva she is often represented on her medals. + +[12] The roofs of many of the apartments of the Tavrid palace were +decorated with golden stars. + +[13] _Bulava_--the Hetman’s staff. + +[14] This is somewhat of an anachronism, as the Poet died before his +patron. + +[15] In the former edition this poem was printed in another shape, and +was then attributed to Lomonosov. It belongs, however, to Derzhavin, +and is here restored to its proper author and to its original measure. + + + + +BATIUSHKOV. + + +TO MY PENATES. + + Fatherland Penates! come, + Kind protectors of my home! + Not in gold or jewels rich-- + Can ye love your simple shrine? + Smile, then, sweetly from your niche + On this lowly hut of mine. + Thus removed from worldly care, + I, a wearied wanderer, + In this silent corner here, + Offer no ambitious prayer. + Here if ye consent to dwell, + Happiness shall court my cell. + Kind and courteous ever prove, + Beaming on me light and love! + Not with streams of fragrant wine, + Not with incense smoking high, + Does the poet seek your shrine-- + His is mild devotion’s sigh, + Grateful tears, the still soft fire + Of feeling heart: and sweetest strains, + Inspired by the Aonian quire. + O Lares! in my dwelling rest, + Smile on the poet where he reigns, + And sure the poet shall be blest. + Come, survey my dwelling over; + I’ll describe it if I’m able: + In the window stands a table, + Three-legged, tott’ring, with a cover, + Gay some centuries ago, + Ragged, bare and faded now. + In a corner, lost to fame, + To honour lost, the blunted sword + (That relic of my fathers’ name) + Harmless hangs, by rust devoured. + Here are pillaged authors laid-- + There, a hard and creaking bed: + Broken, crumbling, argile-ware; + Furniture strewed here and there. + And these in higher love I hold, + Than sofas rich with silk and gold, + Or china vases gay and fair. + Kind Penates! thus I pray-- + O may wealth and vanity + Never hither find their way, + Never here admitted be! + Let the vile, the slavish soul, + Let the sons of pomp and pride, + Fortune’s spoilt ones, turn aside; + Not on them nor theirs I call! + Tottering beggar! hither come, + _Thou_ art bidden to my home; + Throw thy useless crutch away; + Come--be welcome and be gay! + Warmth and rest thy limbs require, + Stretch thee by my cheerful fire: + Reverend teacher! old and hoary, + Thou whom years and toils have taught, + Who with many a storm hast fought, + Storms of time and storms of glory! + Take thy merry balalaika[1], + Sing thy struggles o’er again; + In the battle’s bloody plain, + Where thou swungst the rude nagaika[2]; + Midst the cannon’s thunder-roar, + Midst the sabres clashing o’er; + Trumpets sounding, banners flying + O’er the dead and o’er the dying; + While thy never-wearied blade + Foes on foes in darkness laid. + And thou, Lisette! at evening steal, + Through the shadow-cover’d vale, + To this soft and sweet retreat; + Steal, my nymph, on silent feet. + Let a brother’s hat disguise + Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes; + O’er thee be my mantle thrown, + Bind my warlike sabre on: + When the treacherous day is o’er, + Knock, fair maiden, at my door; + Enter then, thou soldier sweet! + Throw thy mantle at my feet; + Let thy curls, so brightly glowing, + On thy ivory shoulders flowing, + Be unbound: thy lily breast + Heave, no more with robes opprest! + “Thou enchantress! is it so? + Sweetest, softest shepherdess! + Art thou come indeed to bless + With thy smiles my cottage now?” + O her snowy hands are pressing + Warmly, wildly pressing mine! + Mine her rosy lips are blessing, + Sweet as incense from the shrine, + Sweet as zephyr’s breath divine + Gently murmuring through the bough; + Even so she whispers now: + “O my heart’s friend, I am thine; + Mine, beloved one! art thou.” + What a privileged being he, + Who in life’s obscurity, + Underneath a roof of thatch, + Till the morning dawns above, + Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch, + In the arms of holy love! + But the stars are now retreating + From the brightening eye of day, + And the little birds are greeting, + Round their nests, the dewy ray. + Hark! the very heaven is ringing + With the matin song of peace: + Hark! a thousand warblers singing + Waft their music on the breeze: + All to life, to love are waking, + From their wings their slumbers shaking; + But my Lila still is sleeping + In her fair and flowery nest; + And the zephyr, round her creeping, + Fondly fans her breathing breast; + O’er her cheeks of roses straying, + With her golden ringlets playing: + From her lips I steal a kiss; + Drink her breath: but roses fairest, + Richest nectar, rapture dearest, + Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss, + Never were as sweet as this. + Sleep, thou loved one! sweetly sleep; + Angels here their vigils keep! + Blest, in innocence arrayed, + I from fortune’s favours flee; + Shrouded in the forest-shade, + More than blest by love and thee. + Time on dove-like wing glides by: + O! has gold a ray so bright + As thy seraph-smile of light + Throws o’er happy poverty? + Thou good genius! in thy view + Wealth is vile and worthless too: + Riches never brought thee down + From thy splendour-girded throne; + But beneath the shadowy tree + Thou hast deigned to smile on _me_. + Fancy, daughter of the skies, + Thoughts, on wings of light that rise, + Waft my spirit gay and free, + When the storm of passion slumbers, + Far above humanity, + To the Aonian land of numbers, + Where the choirs of music stray; + Rapture, like a feather’d arrow, + Bursting life’s dark prison narrow, + Bears me to the heavens away. + Sovereigns of Parnassus! stay + Till the morning’s rosy ray + Throws its brightness o’er your hill, + Stay with nature’s poet still. + O reveal the shadowy band, + Minstrels of my fatherland! + Let them pass the Stygian shore, + From the ethereal courts descending: + Yonder airy spirits o’er, + O! I hear their voices blending: + List! the heavenly echoes come + Wafted to my privileged home; + Music hovers round my head, + From the living and the dead. + Our Parnassian giant[3], proud, + Tow’ring o’er the rest I see; + And, like storm or thunder loud, + Hear his voice of majesty. + Sons and deeds of glory singing + A majestic swan of light; + Now the harp of angels stringing, + Now he sounds the trump of fight; + Midst the muses’, graces’ throng, + Sailing through the heaven along; + Horace’ strength, and Pindar’s fire, + Blended in his mighty lyre. + Now he thunders, swift and strong, + Even like Suna o’er the waste[4]; + Now, like Philomela’s song, + Soft and spring-like, sweet and chaste, + Gently breathing through the wild, + Heavenly fancy’s best loved child! + Gladdening and enchanting one[5]! + History’s gayest, fairest son! + He who oft with Agathon + Visits evening’s fane of bliss: + Or in Plato’s master tone, + Near the illustrious Parthenon, + Calls the rays of wisdom down + With a voice sublime as his. + Now amidst the darkness walking, + Where old Russia had her birth: + With the Vladimirij talking, + As they ruled o’er half the earth: + Or Sclavonian heroes hoary, + Cradled in a night of glory! + Sweetest of the sylphs above[6], + And the graces’ darling, see! + O how musically he + Tunes his Citra’s melody, + To Dushenka[7] and to love. + Near, Meletzy smiling stands, + Mutual thoughts their souls employ; + Heart in heart, and hands in hands, + Lo! they sing a song of joy; + Next engaged with love in play, + Poets and philosophers, + Close to Phædrus and Pilpay[8], + Lo! Dmitriev appears + Sporting like a happy child, + Midst the forest’s tenants wild, + Garlanded with smiling wreaths; + Truth unveiled beside him breathes. + See two brothers toying there, + Nature’s children--Phœbus’ priests: + Krĭloff leading Khemnitzer! + Teaching poets! ye whose song + Charms the idle moments long, + When the wearied spirit rests. + Heavenly choir! the graces twine + O’er you garlands all divine; + And with you the joys I drink, + Sparkling round Pierian brink, + While I sing in raptured glory, + “_Ed io anche son pittore_.” + Friendly Lares! O conceal + From man’s envious, jealous eye, + Those sweet transports which I feel, + Those blest rays of heart-born joy! + Fortune! hence thy treasures bear, + And thy sparkling vanities: + I can look with careless eyes + On thy flight--my little bark, + Safely led through tempests dark, + Finds a peaceful haven here-- + Those who sported in thy ray + From my thoughts have passed away. + But ye gayer, wiser ones, + Glory’s, pleasure’s cheerful sons! + Ye who with the graces walk, + Ye who with the muses talk; + Hurrying o’er life’s visions gay + In intellectual children’s play; + Careless, joyous sages!--you, + Philosophers and idlers too! + Ye who hate the chains of slavery! + Ye who love the songs of bravery! + In your happiest moments come, + Come, and crowd the muses’ home. + Let the laugh and let the bowl + Banish sorrow from the soul: + Come, Zh******, hither hieing, + Time is like an arrow flying-- + Pleasure like an arrow fleet: + Here let friendship’s smile of gladness + Brighten every cloud of sadness-- + Wreathe with cypress, roses sweet. + Love is life;--thy garlands bring, + V****, while they’re blossoming: + Bind them blooming round our brow-- + Bacchus, friends! is with us now. + Favourite of the muses, fill: + Pledge and drink, and pledge us still! + Aristippus’ grandson--thou! + O thou lov’st the Aonian lasses, + And the harmonious clang of glasses; + But when evening’s silence fills + All the vales and all the hills, + Thou, remote from worldly folly, + Tak’st thy walk with melancholy; + And with that unearthly dame + (Contemplation is her name) + Who conveys the illumined sense + In sublime abstraction hence-- + Up to those high and bright abodes + Where men are angels--angels, gods. + Give me now thy friendly hand; + Leave for me thy spirit-land! + Come, companion of my joy, + We will all time’s power destroy + On our _chazha solotoi_[9]. + See behind, with locks so gray, + How he sweeps life’s gems away; + His remorseless scythe is mowing + All the flowers around us blowing. + Be it ours to drive before us + Bliss--though fate is frowning o’er us! + Time may hurry, if he will; + We will hurry swifter still; + Drink the cup of ecstasy, + Pluck the flow’rets as we fly, + Spite of time and destiny: + Many a star and many a flower + Shine and bloom in life’s short hour, + And their rays and their perfume + For _us_ shall shine--for _us_ shall bloom. + Soon shall we end our pilgrimage; + And at the close of life’s short stage + Sink smiling on our dusty bed: + The careless wind shall o’er us sweep; + Where sleep our sires, their sons shall sleep + With evening’s darkness round our head. + There let no hired mourners weep[10]; + No costly incense fan the sod; + No bell pretend to mourn; no hymn + Be heard midst midnight’s shadows dim-- + Can they delight a clay-cold clod? + No! if love’s tribute ye will pay, + Assemble in the moonlight ray, + And throw fresh flow’rets o’er my clay: + Let my Penates sleep with me-- + Here bring the cup I loved--the flute + I played--and twine its form, though mute, + With branches from the ivy-tree! + No grave-stone need the wanderer tell, + That he who lived, and loved so well, + Is sleeping in serenity. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] The balalaika is a two-sided musical instrument, of which the +Russian peasants are extremely fond. + +[2] The nagaika is a hard thong used by the Cossacks to flog their +horses; but sometimes employed as a weapon of warlike attack. + +[3] Derzhavin. + +[4] In the original _steppe_; a long, mighty, barren, desert; such as +the Siberian river (Suna) flows over. + +[5] Karamsin. + +[6] Bogdanovich. + +[7] Dushenka (the diminutive of Dusha--the Soul), or The Little Psyche, +is the title of the most celebrated poem of Bogdanovich. + +[8] The wise man, who according to the oriental story (current also in +Russia) received _Truth_ when she had been inhospitably driven from +place to place. In Russia I have heard the fable thus:--A Vakir in +his ramble trod where the ground re-echoed his footsteps--“It must be +hollow here,” thought he; “I will dig, and I shall find a treasure.” +He dug, and discovered a spring, from whence a beautiful and naked +female sprung forth--“Who art thou, loveliest daughter of heaven?” +said he. “My name,” she replied, “is Truth; lend me thy mantle.” This +he refused to do; and she hastened to the city, where the poets found +fault with her figure, the courtiers with her manners, the merchants +with her simplicity. She wandered about, and none would give her an +asylum, till she fell in with a poor man, the court news-writer, who +thought she might be a very useful auxiliary: but she blotted out +whatever he composed, so that no news was published for many days; and +the sultan sending for his newsman to inquire the cause of his silence, +was told the history of the intrusive guest, who was in consequence +summoned to court. Here, however, she was so troublesome, turning every +thing upside down, that it was determined to convey her away; and the +sultan ordered her to be buried alive in his garden. His commands were +obeyed by his courtiers; but Truth, who always springs up with renewed +vigour in the open air, rose from her grave; and, after wandering +about for some time, found the door of the public library open, went +in, and amused herself by burning all the books that were there, with +the exception of two or three. Again straying forth in search of an +abode, she met a venerable man, to whom she told her story--and this +was Pilpay. He received her to his house with a cordial welcome, and +requested her company to his museum of stuffed beasts, birds, and +insects. “Thou hast no discreetness,” said he; “in the world thou art +constantly getting into scrapes: now take the counsel of an old man, +make this cabinet thy abode; here thou hast a large choice of society, +and here dwell.” She found the advice so reasonable that she adopted +it; since when her voice is only heard in the language of fable, and +her chosen interpreters are the animal creation. + +Pilpay’s Fables were translated into French by Galland, 2 vols. 8vo. +1714. There are also several English translations. + +[9] The golden cup. + +[10] Plakalschitzii--women hired to mourn round a corpse. + + + + +LOMONOSOV. + + +EVENING REFLECTIONS, ON THE MAJESTY OF GOD, ON SEEING THE GREAT +NORTHERN LIGHTS. + + Now day conceals her face, and darkness fills + The field, the forest, with the shades of night; + The gloomy clouds are gathering round the hills, + Veiling the last ray of the lingering light. + The abyss of heaven appears--the stars are kindling round; + Who, who can count those stars, who that abyss can sound? + + Just as a sand ’whelm’d in the infinite sea; + A ray the frozen iceberg sends to heaven; + A feather in the fierce flame’s majesty; + A mote, by midnight’s maddened whirlwind driven, + Am I, midst this parade: an atom, less than nought, + Lost and o’erpower’d by the gigantic thought. + + And we are told by wisdom’s knowing ones, + That these are multitudes of worlds like _this_; + That yon unnumber’d lamps are glowing suns, + And each a link amidst creation is;-- + There dwells the Godhead too--there shines his wisdom’s essence-- + His everlasting strength--his all-supporting presence. + + Where are thy secret laws, O nature, where? + Thy north-lights dazzle in the wintry zone: + How dost thou light from ice thy torches there? + There has thy sun some sacred, secret throne? + See in yon frozen seas what glories have their birth; + Thence night leads forth the day to illuminate the earth. + + Come then, philosopher! whose privileged eye + Reads nature’s hidden pages and decrees:-- + Come now, and tell us whence, and where, and why, + Earth’s icy regions glow with lights like these, + That fill our souls with awe:--profound inquirer, say, + For thou dost count the stars and trace the planets’ way! + + What fills with dazzling beams the illumined air? + What wakes the flames that light the firmament? + The lightnings flash:--there is no thunder there-- + And earth and heaven with fiery sheets are blent: + The winter night now gleams with brighter, lovelier ray + Than ever yet adorn’d the golden summer’s day. + + Is there some vast, some hidden magazine, + Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies? + Some phosphorus fabric, which the mountains screen? + Whose clouds of light above those mountains rise? + Where the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea, + And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry? + + Thou knowest not! ’tis doubt, ’tis darkness all! + Even here on earth our thoughts benighted stray, + And all is mystery through this worldly ball-- + Who then can reach or read yon milky way? + Creation’s heights and depths are all unknown--untrod-- + Who then shall say how vast, how great creation’s God? + + + + +ZHUKOVSKY. + + +THE MARINER. + + Rudderless my shattered bark, + Driven by wild fatality, + Hurries through the tempest dark, + O’er the immeasurable sea. + Yet one star the clouds shines through; + Little star! shine on, I pray! + O that star is vanished too-- + My last anchor breaks away. + + Gloomy mists the horizon bound, + Furiously the waters roar; + Frightful gulfs are yawning round, + Fearful crags along the shore. + Then I cried in wild despair, + “Earth and heaven abandon me.” + Fool! the heavenly pilot there + May thy silent helmsman be. + + Through the dark, the madden’d waves, + O’er the dangerous craggy bed; + Midst the night-envelop’d graves, + Lo! I was in safety led + By the unseen guardian hand;-- + Darkness gone, and calm the air, + And I stood on Eden’s land; + Three sweet angels hailed me there! + + Everlasting fount of love! + _Now_ will I confide in Thee: + Kneeling midst the joys above, + Thy resplendent face I see: + Who can paint Thee, fair and bright, + Thy soul-gladdening beauty tell? + Midst heaven’s music and heaven’s light, + Purity ineffable! + + O unutterable joy! + In Thy light to breathe, to be; + Strength and heart and soul employ, + O my God, in loving Thee. + Though my path were dark and drear, + Holiest visions round me rise; + Stars of hope are smiling there, + Smiling down from Paradise. + + +ÆOLUS’S HARP[1]. + + In yon mansion of ages + Lives Morven’s famed chieftain, the valiant Ordāl; + Where the wild billow rages, + And scatters its foam on the time-hallowed wall; + Like a mountain in glory, + It towers o’er the wave, + And its oaks, old and hoary, + Come down to the shores which the white waters lave[2]. + + The stag-hound, the beagle, + With voices re-echoed, the wide forest fill; + To the throne of the eagle + They chase the wild boar and the goat up the hill; + And the stag from the heather:-- + The valleys resound; + Horns, shoutings together, + Are mingled in rapid vibrations around. + + All, all are invited-- + And joy is let loose at the board of Ordāl; + The guests are united + Where wide-spreading antlers adorn the rude hall[3]: + Of ages departed + The glories are told; + And memory, full-hearted, + Sends back all its thoughts to the great ones of old[4]. + + Their helmets in order, + Their bucklers, and harness, and hauberks are hung + On the roof’s antique border[5]: + And there, while the deeds and the victories are sung + Of the heroes of story, + Ordāl proudly stands; + And a flash of their glory + Shines out from the cup which he waves in his hands[6]. + + He looks to the armour; + ’Tis all that destruction hath left of their name;-- + His bosom beats warmer, + His spirit is roused with the touch of their fame: + Though the helmets before them + Are broken and dim, + He remembers who wore them-- + And, O, they are splendid and sacred to him[7]. + + Milvana the bright one[8] + The hall of her father resplendently fills; + As, with garments of light on[9], + A morning of summer walks up the fresh hills; + As from nature’s recesses + A free golden stream, + So her fine flowing tresses + O’er her soft-heaving bosom in luxury gleam[10]. + + Far fairer than morning[11]. + She scatters around the soft lustre of soul; + Dark glances adorning + The flashes of fire from her eye-balls that roll; + Like the song of the fountain + Her mild accents fall; + Like the rose of the mountain + Her breath;--but her spirit is sweeter than all[12]. + + Her beauty’s gay splendour + has beamed in its brightness through far-distant lands: + What heroes attend her-- + The castle of Morven is filled with their bands. + Its chieftain delighted + Weaves visions of pride; + But his daughter has plighted + Her hand to a bard with no glory allied. + + Young, lovely, and lonely + As the rose in its freshness, he tuned his soft lays + In the deep valley only: + To him all unheard was the music of praise. + Milvana descended + From luxury’s throne: + Affection had blended + Her heart with a heart as unstained as her own. + + In the black arch of heaven, + Like the shield of a warrior, the pale moon is hung[13]; + Through the gloomy clouds driven, + Its light-streams o’er ocean’s wide surface are flung; + The dark shadows spreading, + From castle and grove, + Their giant forms shedding + Sublimely the waves and the waters above. + + Where the mountain-cocks rally, + Where the waterfall bursts from the storm-cover’d rock + Ere it rush to the valley[14]; + The oak was her witness, her shelter the oak: + Milvana retreating + To solitude there, + Her minstrel awaiting:-- + She breathed not--her breath was suspended by fear. + + His harp sounded lightly-- + He came to the oak-tree--blest moments of love! + The moon glimmered brightly: + All stillness beneath and all beauty above. + What a temple for loving + For bosoms so bland! + And the waves, softly moving, + Convey their low music along the smooth strand. + + They looked on the ocean; + With their soft pensive sadness it seemed to attune; + The waves’ gentle motion + Was silvered and marked by the rays of the moon. + “How brightly, how fleetly + The waters roll on! + So swiftly, so sweetly + Come pleasures and love--they smile and are gone.” + + “Why sigh then, my fair one! + Though the waters may ebb and the years may decay? + My beloved! my dear one! + Can time on its wings bear affection away? + To a bard unbefriended + O say canst thou bow; + Thou, from monarchs descended, + And heroes, whom Morven is honouring now?” + + “What is honour or glory? + What garlands so sacred as love’s holy wreath? + What hero-bright story + Has an utterance so sweet as affection’s young breath? + No fears shall confound us, + No sorrow, no gloom; + Joy is sparkling around us, + And let years follow years till life sinks in the tomb.” + + “Come, joys that smile o’er us, + Ye sweets of a moment, come hither and stay! + For who can assure us + They will not be scattered by morning’s bright ray? + For morn will not linger, + Nor rapture remain; + I, again a poor singer, + And thou, a bright queen in thy splendour again[15].” + + “Let the glance of day brighten, + Let its radiance be shed o’er the mountain and sea[16]; + Thy smiles shall enlighten + All nature, while living, to love and to me; + With hope and with heaven, + With love and with thee, + What joys are not given? + For life has no transports that beam not on me.” + + “The sun is returning; + The orient is pale with the promise of day; + The zephyrs of morning + Awakened, like waves on the mountain-tops play;” + “’Tis the northern light glancing + Across the dark sky, + Not the morning advancing; + Sweet winds! bring no morn from the mountains on high.” + + “But list! to the bustling + Of voices; they wake in the castle ere now.” + “O no! ’tis the rustling + Of half-slumbering birds as they dream on the bough.” + “The orient is lighted, + Milvana! O why + Do my spirits, benighted + In doubt and foreboding, desert me and die?” + + The youth has suspended, + In silence, his harp on the time-hallowed oak:-- + “Unseen, unattended, + Let thy soft music speak, my sweet harp! as it spoke + In the luxury of sadness[17], + The fervour of truth, + The bright tones of gladness, + The songs and the smiles and the sunshine of youth. + + “The bloom of the singer + Shall fade with the grief-blast, like flowers of the grove[18]; + But here there shall linger, + The spirit, the youth and the fervour of love. + An angel here speaking, + Shall often be seen, + All those raptures awaking, + Which in days of our early devotion have been. + + “My spirit shall hover + Like a light airy shade o’er the track of thy way; + Milvana! thy lover + Shall speak through his harp at the close of the day. + The grief that alarmed us, + Uncertainty’s fear, + The tears that disarmed us, + All, all of life’s sorrows shall fly from us here. + + “When his life-term is ended, + Affection immortal shall live in his soul; + Our spirits there blended, + Shall love and be blest while eternities roll. + Thou oak-tree! wide-spreading, + O’ershadow the fair;-- + Ye zephyrs! here shedding + Your fragrance, the freshness of sympathy bear.” + + The big tears were falling:-- + He ceased:--his eye fixed, but within, like a knell, + A low voice was calling[19]-- + “Farewell! my Milvana! for ever farewell.” + His hand, damp and burning, + Had wildly seized hers: + Then hurriedly turning, + Like a phantom of fancy, the youth disappears. + + The moon shone unclouded-- + The maiden was there, but the minstrel was fled: + Like a silent tree shrouded + In darkness, she stood in the wilderness dread[20]. + The chieftain his daughter + Had traced to the grove: + And now o’er the water + To exile, a bark is conveying her love. + + At morn and at even + Milvana retires to the oak-tree to mourn; + And the stream that is driven + Adown the steep hill, seems her sighs to return. + “’Tis all dark and dreary, + Milvana! to thee, + Thy spirit is weary-- + And thy minstrel shall never return to the tree.” + + The evening wind waking, + Called up their soft sounds from the leaves as it roved: + The green branches shaking, + It kisses the harp--but the harp is unmoved. + Spring came, sweetly bringing + Her eloquent train[21], + And nature was ringing + With rapture, enkindling gay smiles through her reign. + + On the emerald meadows, + And hills in the distance, are gold streams of light; + And soft silent shadows + Seem to spread over eve the calm stillness of night. + The stars are in motion + Across the blue deep: + Like a mirror, the ocean: + And the winds, hushed to silence, among the leaves sleep[22]. + + Milvana sat weeping + Beneath the old tree, but her thoughts were not there. + All nature lay sleeping, + When accents unearthly were heard in the air: + The green leaves are shaken-- + It was not the wind[23]-- + The silent strings waken: + Some ghost hurries by and leaves music behind[24]. + + The harp’s secret spirit + Breathed forth a long, sorrowful, heart-rending sound[25]: + She trembled to hear it, + ’Twas softer than zephyrs when whispering around; + ’Twas the voice of her lover;-- + Her soul sunk in night[26]: + “’Tis over--’tis over-- + The earth is a waste--he has taken his flight.” + + In desolate madness + Milvana had fall’n in the dust[27]: but the tone + Still breathed its sweet sadness! + More sad as the soul that inspired it was gone. + Its music she heard not; + She woke faint and chill; + The star-lights appeared not-- + ’Twas morning--’twas morning, damp, dewy, and still. + + From morrow to morrow, + She visited still the old oak of the wood; + There that music of sorrow + Still broke on her ear from the realms of the good. + While thus disunited, + On earth could she stay, + By her minstrel invited + To the heaven where her thoughts and her hopes led the way? + + Thou harp of my bosom, + Be still--let thy voice drown the summons of death; + The delicate blossom, + Unopened, shall fade in the valley beneath: + The wanderer roaming + To-morrow will come-- + “My floweret, where blooming[28]?” + “Thy floweret!--’tis withered--it sleeps in the tomb.” + + She is dead--but whenever + A black, starless mantle is hung o’er the skies; + When from fountain, and river, + And hill, the cold mists like the dark billows rise, + Two shades are seen blending, + United as when + In their youth-tide attending[29];-- + And the oak waves its boughs, and the chords speak again. + + +SONG. + + Say, ye gentle breezes, say, + Round me why so gently breathing? + What impels thee, streamlet! wreathing + Through the rocks thy silver way? + + What awakens new-born joy, + Joy and hope thus sweetly mingled; + Say, has pilgrim-spring enkindled + Rapture with her laughing eye? + + Lo! heaven’s temple, bright, serene, + Where the busy clouds are blending, + Sinking now, and now ascending, + Far behind the forest green! + + Will the High, the Holy One + Veil youth’s soul-enrapturing vision? + Shall I hear in dreams elysian + Childhood’s early, lovely tone? + + See the restless swallow flies + Through the clouds--his own dominion; + Could I reach on hope’s strong pinion, + Where that land of beauty lies! + + O how sweet--how blest to be + Where heaven’s shelter might protect me! + Who can lead me--who direct me + To that bright futurity? + + +ROMANCE. + + Gather’d yon dark forest o’er + Lo! the gloomy clouds are spread: + Bending toward the desert shore, + See the melancholy maid; + Her eyes and her bosom are wet with tears; + All heaven is black, and the storm appears; + And the wild winds lift the billows high, + And her breast is heaving with many a sigh. + + “O my very soul is faded, + Joy and sympathy are fled; + Nature is in darkness shaded, + Love and friendship both are dead. + The hope that brightened my days is gone! + O whither, my angel! art thou flown? + Too blest was I, too wild with bliss, + For I lived and loved, and loved for this! + + “Swell then, burning tears! the deep, + Flow, with yonder billows flow: + And ye lonely forests! weep, + Meet companions of my woe. + My days of pleasure, though short and few, + Are fled for ever--O earth! adieu! + He sleeps--will death restore him? Never! + For the joy that’s lost is lost for ever. + + “Nature’s sad and wintery day + Is of momentary gloom: + Soon in Spring’s reviving ray + All her loveliness shall bloom. + But joy has never a second spring: + And time no ray of light can bring + But from tearful eyes:--there’s no relief + From dark despair’s corroding grief!” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] It will immediately occur to the readers of Ossian, that the +personages, sentiments, and scenery of this poem are derived from him. +The conviction of their high antiquity (notwithstanding what Adelung +has written) is very general in the north of Europe, and I have often +heard that conviction expressed by those who have gone very profoundly +into the history of Runic and Gothic poetry. Whatever be their date, +the inquiry as to their literary merit is very distinct from it. With +the exception of Gray’s Elegy, (of which I have seen a collection +of more than one hundred and fifty versions,) there is nothing, +probably, in our language, which has been more frequently translated. +There are many translations and imitations in Russian besides this of +Zhukovsky,--by Kostrov, Grædich, Visheslavtzev, Oserov, Kapnist, &c. + +To the first edition I added a specimen of Dutch poetry, of which +Ossian was the subject, and ventured to speak of the great excellence +of Vondel, Hooft, Helmers, Tollens, and other poets of Holland. I have +now decided on publishing a little volume of _specimens_, in which I +have made considerable progress. + +[2] High walls rise on the banks of the Duvranna, and see their mossy +towers in the stream; a rock ascends behind them with its bending +pines. Thou may’st behold it far distant.--_Oithona._ + +[3] Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields, and youth of +heavy looks came to Rurmar’s echoing hall--they came to woo the +maid.--_Cath-Loda._ + +[4] Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds! their +souls are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times; +their eyes are flames of fire.--_Fingal._ + +[5] When a warrior was so far advanced in years as to be unfit for the +field, it was the custom to hang up his arms in the great hall, where +the tribe feasted on joyful or remarkable occasions. + +[6] Is the remembrance of battles pleasant to the soul? Do we not +remember with joy the place where our fathers feasted?--_Temora._ + +[7] Not unmarked by Sul-Malla is the shield of Morven’s king. It hangs +high in my father’s hall in memory of the past.--_Sul-Malla._ + +[8] Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven’s bow +in showers. Her dark hair flowed around it like the streaming +clouds.--_Cath-Loda._ + +Her soul was like a stream of light.--_Colna-Dona._ + +[9] She was a light on the mountain.--_Temora._ + +[10] Her breast rose slowly to sight, like the ocean’s heaving +wave.--_Colna-Dona._ + +[11] Her face was like the light of the morning.--_Dar-Thula._ + +[12] She appeared lovely as the mountain flower, when the ruddy beams +of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered sides.--_Prel. Discourse to +Ossian._ + +[13] O thou that travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield +of the mighty.--_Prel. Discourse to Ossian._ + +His shield is terrible, like the bloody moon ascending through a +storm.--_Temora._ + +[14] Lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods--to the roar of my +mountain-streams.--_War of Caros._ + +As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter descending from his +storm-covered hill; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream.--_Cathlin +of Clutha._ + +It is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes +between its echoing rocks to the blasted field of the sun.--_Temora._ +Gray streams leap down from the rocks.--_Ibid._ + +[15] The melancholy character of the whole of this passage, may serve +to recall Ossian’s sublimely beautiful and tender song of sorrow. +I shall be excused for introducing it.--“Desolate is the dwelling +of Moina: silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of +mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen +before us; for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son +of the winged days? thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few +years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, +and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the +desert come! we shall be renowned in our day. The mark of my arm shall +be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round +the shell; let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven! shalt +fail--if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is for a +season, like Fingal,--our fame shall survive thy beams.”--_Carthon._ + +In the same touching spirit is the noble address to the sun.--“O thou +that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! whence are thy +beams, O sun!--thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful +beauty, the stars hide themselves in the sky: the moon cold and pale +sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a +companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains +themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the +moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same, +rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with +tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy +beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou +lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow +hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the +west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will +have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of +the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! age is +dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it +shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills: the blast of +the north is on the plain--the traveller shrinks in the midst of his +journey.”--_Ibid._ + +[16] The mountains are covered with day.--_Temora._ + +[17] Pleasant is the joy of grief.--_Carrie-thura._ + +[18] Thy death came like a blast from the desert and laid my green +head low: the spring returned with its showers, no leaf of mine +arose.--_Croma._ + +[19] Within my bosom is a voice--others hear it not.--_Temora._ + +[20] Night came: the moon from the east looked on the mournful field: +but they stood still like a silent grove that lifts its head on +Gormal.--_Carthon._ + +[21] So hears a tree in the vale the voice of spring around, and pours +its green leaves to the sun.--_Temora._ + +[22] Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the +sky? The west has opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The +waves come to behold thy beauty: they lift their trembling heads; they +see thee lovely in thy sleep; but they shrink away with fear. Rest in +thy shadowy cave, O sun! and let thy return be in joy.--_Carric-thura._ + +[23] Doth the wind touch thee, O harp! or is it some passing +ghost?--_Berrathon._ + +[24] The harps of the bards were believed to emit melancholy and +unwonted sounds prophetic or commemorative of the death of any renowned +and worthy person. This was attributed to the _light touch of ghosts_. +The music was called the warning voice of the dead. + +The harps of the bards untouched, sound mournful over the +hill.--_Temora._ + +The lone blast torched their trembling strings: the sound is sad an +low.--_Ibid._ + +[25] The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain +shrieked. The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently +touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the +tomb.--_Dar-Thula._ + +[26] Darkness covers my soul.--_Prel. Discourse._ + +Darkness gathered on Utha’s soul.--_Carric-thura._ + +[27] Her dark brown hair is spread on earth.--_Ibid._ + +[28] Why did I not pass away in secret like the flower of the rock, +that lifts its head unseen and shows its withered leaves to the +blast?--_Oithona._ + +They fall away like the flower on which the sun hath looked in his +strength after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy +with the drops of night.--_Croma._ + +[29] It was a current opinion, that the spirits of women hovered over +the earth in all their living beauty, and were often seen gliding along +like a sun beam on a hill. + +She was like a spirit of heaven half folded in the skirt of a +cloud.--_Temora._ + +The sky grew dark: the forms of the dead were blended with the +clouds.--_Ibid._ + +Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark thick mist on Lena, where +it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they +rise without song to the dwelling of winds.--_Ibid._ + +Two spirits of heaven standing each on his gloomy cloud.--_Ibid._ + +The flower hangs its heavy head, waving at times to the gale. “Why dost +thou awake me, O gale!” it seems to say, “I am covered with the drops +of heaven: the time of my fading is near--the blast that shall scatter +my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come. He that saw me in beauty +shall come--his eyes will search in the fields, but they will not find +me.”--_Berrathon._ + + + + +KARAMSIN. + + +THE SONG OF BORNHOLM. + + Curses on the world’s decree! + That decree which bid us part: + Who has e’er resisted thee, + Passion-throbbing, maddened heart? + + Is aught holier than the light + Kindled in our souls by heaven? + Is aught stronger than the might + Given to love--to beauty given? + + Yes! I love--shall ever love! + Curse the passion if ye will, + Call down vengeance from above, + Still I love--adore her still! + + Holy Nature! I, thy child, + To thy sheltering bosom flee: + Thou hast fanned this flame so wild, + I am innocent with thee. + + If to yield to passion’s sway, + Be a dark and damning sin; + Why hast thou, O tempter! say, + Lighted passion’s fires within? + + No! thy storm-winds as they rolled, + Gently rocked our secret bed; + And thy thunder, though it growled, + Never burst upon our head. + + Bornholm! Bornholm! to thy home + Memory--wildered memory flies: + Thither would my spirit roam + From its tears--its agonies! + + Vain the wish! an outlaw I, + Followed by a father’s curse; + Doomed in banishment to die, + Or despairing live--as worse! + + Lila! has thy spirit shrunk + From thy woes, and found a grave? + Has thy burthened misery sunk + In oblivion’s silent wave? + + Let thy shadow then appear, + Smile upon me from the tomb; + Give me, love! a welcome there, + Come, though veil’d in darkness,--come! + + +THE CHURCH-YARD. + + FIRST VOICE. + + How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear! + With the howls of the storm-wind--the creaks of the bier, + And the white bones all clattering together! + + SECOND VOICE. + + How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep! + Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, + And flow’rets perfume it with ether. + + FIRST VOICE. + + There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, + And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, + And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss. + + SECOND VOICE. + + How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb! + No tempests are there:--but the nightingales come + And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. + + FIRST VOICE. + + The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave:-- + ’Tis the vulture’s abode:--’tis the wolf’s dreary cave, + Where they tear up the earth with their fangs + + SECOND VOICE. + + There the coney at evening disports with his love, + Or rests on the sod;--while the turtles above, + Repose on the bough that o’erhangs. + + FIRST VOICE. + + There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, + And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death, + The trees are all barren and bare! + + SECOND VOICE. + + O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, + And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume, + With lilies and jessamine fair. + + FIRST VOICE. + + The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, + Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears + He is launched on the wreck-covered river! + + SECOND VOICE. + + The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary, + Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, + And sweetly reposes for ever. + + +AUTUMN. + + The dry leaves are falling; + The cold breeze above + Has stript of its glories + The sorrowing grove. + + The hills are all weeping, + The field is a waste, + The songs of the forest + Are silent and past: + + And the songsters are vanished; + In armies they fly + To a clime more benignant, + A friendlier sky. + + The thick mists are veiling + The valley in white; + With the smoke of the village + They blend in their flight. + + And lo! on the mountain + The wanderer stands, + And sees the pale autumn + Pervading the lands. + + Thou sorrowful wanderer. + Sigh not--nor weep! + For nature, though shrouded, + Will wake from her sleep. + + The spring, proudly smiling, + Shall all things revive; + And gay bridal-garments + Of splendor shall give. + + But man’s chilling winter + Is darksome and dim; + For no second spring-tide + E’er dawns upon him. + + The gloom of his evening, + Time dissipates never: + His sun when departed + Is vanisht for ever. + + +LILEA. + + What a lovely flower I see + Bloom in snowy beauty there-- + O how fragrant and how fair! + Can that lily bloom for me? + Thee to pluck, be mine the bliss, + Place upon my breast and kiss! + Why then is that bliss denied? + Why does heaven our fates divide? + + Sorrow now my bosom fills; + Tears run down my cheeks like rills: + Far away that flower must bloom, + And in vain I sigh, “O come!” + Softly zephyr glides between, + Waving boughs of emerald green. + Purest flow’rets bend their head, + Shake their little cups of dew: + Fate unpitying and untrue. + + Fate so desolate and dread + Says, “She blossoms not for thee;-- + In vain thou shedd’st the bitter tear, + Another hand shall gather her:-- + And thou--go mourn thy misery.” + O flower so lovely! Lilea fair! + With thee I fain my fate would share, + But heaven hath said, “It cannot be!” + + +EPIGRAM. + +TO NICANDER. + + You talk of your taste and your talents _to_ me, + And ask my opinion--so don’t be offended: + Your taste is as bad as a taste can well be: + And as for your talents--_you_ think them most splendid. + + + + +DMITRIEV. + + +DURING A THUNDER-STORM. + + It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow! + Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above: + Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now; + That hand which scatters peace and joy and love. + Almighty! trembling like a timid child, + I hear Thy awful voice--alarmed--afraid-- + I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild, + And in the very grave would hide my head. + + Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies-- + Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust: + _There_ is he lost midst heaven’s high mysteries, + And _here_ in error and in darkness lost: + Beneath the storm-clouds, on life’s raging sea, + Like a poor sailor--by the tempest tost + In a frail bark--the sport of destiny, + He sleeps--and dashes on the rocky coast. + + Thou breathest:--and th’ obedient storm is still: + Thou speakest;--silent the submissive wave: + Man’s shatter’d ship the rushing waters fill, + And the husht billows roll across his _grave_. + Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee, + Life is a shadowy momentary dream: + And Time, when view’d through Thy eternity, + Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam. + + +THE TZAR AND THE TWO SHEPHERDS. + + The tzar has wandered from the city-gate, + To seek seclusion from the cares of state; + And thus he mused; “What troubles equal mine! + _That_ I accomplish when I purpose _this_:-- + In vain I bid the sun of concord shine, + And toil unwearied for my subjects’ bliss; + Its brightness lasts a moment, and the tzar + For the state’s safety is compell’d to war, + God knows I love my subjects--fain would bless them, + But oft mistake--and injure and oppress them. + I seek for truth, but courtiers all deceive me; + They fill their purses and deluded leave me! + My people sigh and groan:--I share their pain, + And struggle to relieve them, but in vain.” + + Thus mused the lord of many nations; then + Looked up, and saw wide scatter’d o’er the glen + The poor lean flocks:--the sheep had lost their lambs, + And the stray’d lambkins bleated for their dams:-- + They fled from place to place, alarm’d, afraid; + The lazy dogs were sleeping in the shade! + How busy is the shepherd!--now he hies + To the grove’s verge:--now to the valley flies:-- + Seeks to assemble here the sheep that stray, + And there a favourite lamb he hurries on: + But lo! the wolf!--he springs upon his prey; + The shepherd hastens, but the thief is gone: + He cries--he beats his breast--he tears his hair, + Invoking death in agonized despair. + + “Behold my picture!” said his majesty, + “Here is another sovereign, just like me:-- + I’m glad to know vexations travel far, + And plague a shepherd as they plague a tzar.” + + And on he moved in more contented mood-- + Whither he knew not;--but beyond the wood + He saw the loveliest flock that ever grazed, + And linger’d, mute with wonder, as he gazed:-- + How strong, how sleek, how satisfied, how fair! + Wool soft as silk, and piled in luxury there, + Its golden burthen seemed too great to bear. + The lambs, as if they ran for wagers playing, + Or near their dams, or far--securely straying-- + The shepherd, ’neath the linden-tree, + Tuned his pipe most joyfully! + + “Ah!” said the tzar, “ye little think + How close ye stand on danger’s brink, + The uncharitable wolf is near:-- + And he for music has no ear.” + + And so it was--as if the wolf had heard, + Advancing in full gallop he appear’d. + + But the dogs, the wily traitor knew, + Sprung up, and at the robber flew:-- + His blood has for his daring paid; + And the lambkin that through fear had stray’d, + Is gather’d into the fold anew; + And the shepherd’s pipe was echoed still, + Down the vale and up the hill. + + The monarch lost all patience now:-- + “What! dost thou sit there like a rock, + While wolves are ravaging thy flock? + A very pretty shepherd thou!” + + “Tzar! here no evil can betide my sheep, + _My dogs are faithful--and they do not sleep_.” + + +THE BROKEN FIDDLE. + + A wretched[1] fiddle fell, in fragments,--these + Though once discordant, by the hand divine + Of music fashioned, breathed sweet harmonies: + + * * * * * + + So is man tuned by sufferings’ discipline. + + +OVER THE GRAVE OF BOGDANOVICH, + +AUTHOR OF THE BEAUTIFUL POEM PSYCHE. + + Here Love unseen, when sinks the evening sun, + Wets the cold urn with tears, and mournful thinks, + While his sad spirit, sorrow-broken, sinks,-- + None now can sing my angel Psyche--none! + + +LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. + + Fair sister! + “Infant brother dear! + On the wing, on the wing?” + Wandering the wide world over + In search of a lover--there _is_ no _lover_: + Lost as if the plague had been there! + + “I’ve been seeking a _friend_!--there’s none below, + The world must soon to ruin go! + Written in sand are the oaths now spoken, + ’Tis all lip-service, and promise broken; + My name is a cloak for _thirst of gain_!” + + And mine for _passion_ impure, profane! + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Original, _diuzhenna_--one of a dozen--a frequent expression for +what is very common and useless. + + + + +Krĭlov. + + +THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE[1]. + + An ass a nightingale espied, + And shouted out, “Holla! holla! good friend! + “Thou art a first-rate singer, they pretend:-- + Now let me hear thee, that I may decide; + I really wish to know--the world is partial ever-- + If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever.” + + The nightingale began her heavenly lays; + Through all the regions of sweet music ranging, + Varying her song a thousand different ways; + Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing: + Full of wild rapture now--then sinking oft + To almost silence--melancholy, soft + As distant shepherd’s pipe at evening’s close:-- + Strewing the wood with lovelier music;--there + All nature seems to listen and repose: + No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:-- + All other voices of the grove are still, + And the charm’d flocks lie down beside the rill. + + The shepherd like a statue stands--afraid + His breathing may disturb the melody, + His finger pointing to the harmonious tree, + Seems to say, “Listen!” to his favourite maid. + + The singer ended:--and our critic bow’d + His reverend head to earth, and said aloud:-- + + “Now that’s so so;--thou really hast some merit; + Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it; + Thy voice wants sharpness:--but if Chanticleer + Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he + Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear; + And thou in spite of all thy faults mayst be + A very decent singer.”---- + The poor bird + In silent modesty the critic heard, + And winged her peaceful flight into the air, + O’er many and many[2] a field and forest fair. + + There are too many such critics now-a-days. + Merciful heaven! protect us from their praise. + + +THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB. + + If harmony be wanting to your plans, + Vain are your efforts, yours, or any man’s; + They end in disappointment all alike. + + I once observed a Swan, a Crab, a Pike, + Drawing a treasure; all their power, their will + Exerted, yet it stood unmoved and still. + ’Tis not its weight, its weight was very little; + Three powers at work, it budges not a tittle: + The Swan would fain soar upwards in its pride, + The Crab draws back, the Pike to the water side. + + Who of the three was wrong? and who was right? + It might be all--it might be none--it might! + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Krĭlov gave me this fable in MS. It has been printed in his _Basni_. + +[2] Literally--“three times nine.” + + + + +Khemnitzer. + + +THE HOUSE-BUILDER. + + Whate’er thou purposest to do, + With an unwearied zeal pursue; + To-day is thine--improve to-day, + Nor trust to-morrow’s distant ray. + + A certain man a house would build, + The place is with materials fill’d; + And every thing is ready there-- + Is it a difficult affair? + Yes! till you fix the corner stone; + It won’t erect itself alone. + Day rolls on day, and year on year, + And nothing yet is done-- + There’s always something to delay + The business to another day. + + And thus in silent waiting stood + The piles of stone and piles of wood; + Till Death, who in his vast affairs + Ne’er puts things off--as men in theirs-- + And thus, if I the truth must tell, + Does his work _finally_ and _well_-- + Winked at our hero as he past, + “Your house is finish’d, Sir, at last; + A narrower house--a house of clay-- + Your palace for _another day_!” + + +THE RICH AND THE POOR MAN. + + So goes the world:--if wealthy, you may call + _This_ friend, _that_ brother;--friends and brothers all: + Though you are worthless--witless--never mind it; + You may have been a stable-boy--what then? + ’Tis wealth, good Sir, makes _honourable men_. + You seek respect, no doubt, and _you_ will find it. + + But if you are poor, heaven help you! though your sire + Had royal blood within him, and though you + Possess the intellect of angels too, + ’Tis all in vain;--the world will ne’er inquire + On such a score:--Why should it take the pains? + ’Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. + + I once saw a poor devil, keen and clever, + Witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit, + And no one noticed him, and no one ever + Gave him a welcome. “Strange,” cried I, “whence is it?” + He walked on this side, then on that, + He tried to introduce a social chat; + Now here, now there,--in vain he tried; + Some formally and freezingly replied, + And some + Said by their silence--“Better stay at home.” + + A rich man burst the door, + As Crœsus rich I’m sure, + He could not pride himself upon his wit + Nor wisdom--for he had not got a bit: + He had what’s better;--he had wealth. + What a confusion!--all stand up erect-- + These crowd around to ask him of his health; + These bow in _honest_ duty and respect; + And these arrange a sofa or a chair, + And these conduct him there. + “Allow me, Sir, the honour;”--then a bow + Down to the earth--Is’t possible to show + Meet gratitude for such kind condescension? + + The poor man hung his head, + And to himself he said, + “This is indeed beyond my comprehension:” + Then looking round + One friendly face he found, + And said--“Pray tell me why is wealth preferr’d + To wisdom?”--“That’s a silly question, friend!” + Replied the other--“Have you never heard, + A man may lend his store + Of gold or silver ore, + But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?” + + +THE LION’S COUNCIL OF STATE. + + A lion held a court for state affairs: + Why? That is not your business, Sir, ’twas theirs! + He called the elephants for counsellors--still + The council-board was incomplete; + And the king deemed it fit + With asses all the vacancies to fill. + Heaven help the state--for lo! the bench of asses + The bench of elephants by far surpasses. + + He was a fool--the foresaid king--you’ll say; + Better have kept those places vacant surely, + Than fill them up so poorly. + O no! that’s not the royal way; + Things have been done for ages thus--and we + Have a deep reverence for antiquity: + Nought worse, Sir, than to be, or to appear + Wiser and better than our fathers were. + + The list must be complete, even though you make it + Complete with asses; for the lion saw + Such had for ages been the law-- + He was no radical to break it! + + “Besides,” he said, “my elephants’ good sense + Will soon my asses’ ignorance diminish, + For wisdom has a mighty influence.” + They made a pretty finish! + The asses’ folly soon obtained the sway; + The elephants became as dull as they! + + +THE WAGGONS. + + I saw a long, long train + Of many a loaded, lumbering wain; + And one there was of most gigantic size, + It look’d an elephant midst a swarm of flies; + It roll’d so proudly that a passenger + Curiously asked--“Now what may _that_ contain?” + “Nothing but bladders, Sir!” + + Such masses (misnamed _men_!) are little rare, + Inflated, bullying, proud, and full of--_air_. + + + + +BOBROV. + + +ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. + +_From the Khersonida, p. 41-3._ + + O thou unutterable Potentate! + Through nature’s vast extent sublimely great! + Thy lovely form the flower-decked field discloses, + Thy smiles are seen in nature’s sunny face: + Milk-coloured lilies and wild-blushing roses + Are bright with Thee:--Thy voice of gentleness + Speaks in the light-winged whispering zephyrs playing + Midst the young boughs, or o’er the meadows straying: + Thy breath gives life to all; below, above, + And all things revel in Thy light and love. + But here, on these gigantic mountains, here + Thy greatness, glory, wisdom, strength and spirit, + In terrible sublimity appear; + Thy awe-imposing voice is heard,--we hear it! + Th’ Almighty’s fearful voice; attend, it breaks + The silence, and in solemn warnings speaks: + His the light tones that whisper midst the trees; + His, his the whistling of the busy breeze; + His, the storm-thunder roaring, rattling round[1], + When element with element makes war + Amidst the echoing mountains: on whose bound, + Whose highest bound he drives his fiery car + Glowing like molten-iron; or enshrin’d + In robes of darkness, riding on the wind + Across the clouded vault of heaven:--What eye + Has not been dazzled by Thy majesty? + Where is the ear that has not heard Thee speak? + Thou breathest!--forest-oaks of centuries + Turn their uprooted trunks towards the skies. + Thou thunderest!--adamantine mountains break, + Tremble, and totter, and apart are riven; + Thou lightenest! and the rocks inflame; Thy power + Of fire to their metallic bosom driven, + Melts and devours them;--Lo! they are no more:-- + They pass away like wax in the fierce flame, + Or the thick mists that frown upon the sun, + Which he but glances at and they are gone; + Or like the sparkling snow upon the hill, + When noon-tide darts its penetrating beam. + What do I say? At GOD’S almighty will, + The affrighted world falls headlong from its sphere, + Planets and suns and systems disappear! + But Thy eternal throne--Thy palace bright, + Zion--stands steadfast in unchanging might; + Zion--Thy own peculiar seat--Thy home! + But here, O GOD! here is Thy temple too: + Heaven’s sapphire arch is its resplendent dome; + Its columns--trees that have for ages stood; + Its incense is the flower-perfumed dew; + Its symphony--the music of the wood; + Its ornaments--the fairest gems of spring; + Its altar is the stony mountain proud! + Lord! from this shrine to Thy abode I bring + Trembling, devotion’s tribute--though not loud. + Nor pomp-accompanied: Thy praise I sing, + And Thou wilt deign to hear the lowly offering. + + +MEDINA. + +_From the Khersonida._ + + Thou wondrous brother of the prophet, sun! + So brightly on Medina’s temple burning; + And scarce less beautiful the crescent moon, + When moving gently o’er the shadows dun + Of evening:--and their verge to silver turning. + O what a lovely, soft tranquillity + Rests on the earth and breathes along the sea! + Here is no cedar bent with misery; + No holy cypress sighs or weeps, as seen + In other lands, where his dark branches green + Mourn in the desert o’er neglected graves: + Here his all-sheltering boughs he calmly waves + In the dim light, the sacred vigils keeping + O’er the blest ashes on earth’s bosom sleeping. + Picture of God! upon the prophet’s shrine + Shine brightly--brightly, beautifully shine + Upon those holy fields where once he trod, + And flowers sprung up beneath his innocent feet, + Tulips and aloes and narcissus’ sweet, + A lovely carpet for the child of God! + There have our privileged, pilgrim footsteps been, + This have we seen--yes, brother! this have seen: + The grave, the life, the ashes, and the dome + Eternal and the heavens: and there have bought + The grace of God and found the joy we sought, + A certain entrance to our final home. + And now, be short our houseward way! + Our fathers’ habitations now appear! + O with what transports shall we hear them say, + With what loud greetings, “Welcome, welcome here!” + The swelling-bosom’d wife, the black-hair’d son + And black-eyed daughter greet our joyous train, + Rushing from our own doors they hither run, + And songs of rapture loudly hail us then. + Their trembling hands the fragrant aloe bear, + Which joyful o’er our wearied limbs they throw; + Home of our fathers! now appear, + Our houseward path be shortened now! + + +SHEIK-HUIABIS CREED, + +AS DESCRIBED BY THE CHERIF. + +_From the Khersonida._ + + ’Tis Allah governs this terrestrial ball, + To all gives laws, as he gave life to all! + He rules the unnumbered circles bright with bliss, + That from the ends of heaven send forth their beams: + He rules the space, the infinite abyss, + The undefined and wandering ether-streams, + Where thousand, thousand stars and planets play-- + What are the laws that guide them on their way? + They are no perishable records--laws + Written with pen and ink:--No! Allah spreads + The golden roll of nature: o’er our heads + Opens his glorious volume, and withdraws + The veil of ignorance: read the letters _there_, + That is the blazing, burning record, where + The letters are not idle _lines_, but _things_: + Read there the name of Allah, dazzling bright, + In _works_ of eloquence and _words_ of light! + Shut, shut all other books; and if thy soul, + Borne upward on devotion’s angel-wings, + Soar to the heaven, from earth and earth’s control, + Thou shalt perceive--shalt know the Deity. + His splendours then shall burst upon thy eye, + An effluence of noon-tide round thee roll, + Thy spirit glad with light and love;--a sun + Of pure philosophy to lead thee on. + + +THE GOLDEN PALACE. + +CHERTOG TVOI VIZHDU. + +SUNG AT MIDNIGHT IN THE GREEK CHURCHES THE LAST WEEK BEFORE EASTER. + +_From the Sclavonic._ + + The golden palace of my God + Tow’ring above the clouds I see: + Beyond the cherubs’ bright abode, + Higher than angels’ thoughts can be: + How can I in those courts appear + Without a wedding garment on? + Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there, + Conduct me to Thy glorious throne! + And clothe me with Thy robes of light, + And lead me through sin’s darksome night, + My Saviour and my God! + + +MIDNIGHT HYMN + +OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCHES, SUNG AT EASTER. + + _Vskuiu mia esi oostavil?_ + Why hast thou forsaken me? + + Why, thou never-setting light, + Is Thy brightness veiled from me? + Why does this unusual night + Cloud Thy blest benignity? + I am lost without Thy ray, + Guide my wandering footsteps, Lord! + Light my dark and erring way + To the noon-tide of Thy word! + + +IZHE KHERUVIMIJ, + +OR SONG OF CHERUBIM. + +THE HYMN CHANTED IN THE RUSSIAN CHURCHES DURING THE PROCESSION OF THE +CUP. + + See the glorious cherubim + Thronging round the Eternal’s throne; + Hark! they sing their holy hymn: + To the unknown Three in One. + ‘All-supporting Deity-- + ‘Living spirit--praise to Thee!’ + + Rest, ye worldly tumults, rest! + Here let all be peace and joy: + Grief no more shall rend our breast, + Tears no more shall dew our eye. + + Heaven-directed spirits rise + To the temple of the skies! + Join the ranks of angels bright, + Near th’ Eternal’s dazzling light. + Khvalim Boga[2]. + + +CHILDREN’S OFFERING ON A PARENT’S BIRTH-DAY. + + Not the first tribute of our lyre, + Not the first fruits of infant spring, + But flames from love’s long kindled fire, + And oft-repeated prayers we bring + To crown thy natal day. + + ’Tis not to-day that first we tell + (When was affection’s spirit mute?) + How long our hearts have loved--how well-- + Nor tune our soft and votive flute, + Nor light the altar’s ray. + + That altar is our household shrine-- + Its flame--the bosom’s kindly heat: + Its offering, sympathy divine; + Its incense, as the may-dew sweet! + Accept thy children’s lay. + + +RULES FOR THE HEART AND THE UNDERSTANDING. + + +1. + + O son of nature! let self-culture be + The object of thy earliest toils: as yet + Thy lamp burns bright--thy day shines gloriously-- + Thou canst not labour when thy sun is set! + + +2. + + Wouldst thou The Unseen Spirit see: + First learn to know thyself; and He + Will then be shadowed forth in thee! + + +3. + + God is a spirit through creation’s whole, + As in this mortal tenement--the soul. + + +4. + + The sun that gives the world its fairest light + Is not yon orb welcomed by the morning hour, + And by the eve expelled;--it is the power + Of an enlightening conscience pure and bright. + + +5. + + Mark where thou standest first; and whence thou art come, + And whither goest, and straight speed thee home. + + +6. + + The woe _to come_, the woe that’s _gone_, + Philosophy thinks calmly on: + But show me the philosopher + Who calmly bears the woes that _are_. + + +7. + + How wise is he who marks the fleeting day + By acts of virtue as it rolls away! + + +8. + + Be all thy views right forward, clear, and even: + The straightest line the soonest leads to heaven. + + +9. + + Thou wouldst count all things, proud philosophy; + Now measure space and weigh eternity! + + +10. + + Light first thy heart with virtue; then thy soul + With wisdom--purest joy shall o’er thee roll. + + +11. + + The most perverted spirit has greatness in it, + The very savage bears a heart that’s noble. + + +12. + + Virtue, though loveliest of all lovely things, + From modesty apart no more is fair; + And when her graceful veil aside she flings, + (Like ether opened to th’ intrusive air) + Loses her sweetest charms and stands a cypher there. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] I have endeavoured to imitate the singular adaptation of words to +sound, of which the Russian language affords so many striking examples: + +Original-- + + Tvoi dukh vsĭvaet vse boriushchii + V sikh--sikh svistjeshchikh vikhrei silakh + Srazhaiushchikhsa mezhdu Gor! + + +[2] Hallelujah. + + + + +BOGDANOVICH. + + +FROM THE DUSHENKA.--p. 8. + + ’Twere but vain daring thro’ dark time to range, + Chasing the shadowy forms of words, which change, + For ever restless, gave to beauty’s power: + All lived an hour, and perished with that hour: + The subject of the aspiring poet’s lay + Is that fair royal maiden, youngest child + Of the eastern monarch, whom with passion wild + Crowds honoured, loved and sigh’d for night and day, + She by the Greeks called Psyche--meaning + (According to our learned ones’ explaining) + A soul, or spirit:--our philosophers + Thinking that all that’s tender, fair and bright, + Must needs be hers, + Named her Dushenka[1];--thus + A word so sweet, so musical to us, + With all the charm of novelty, + O loveliest Psyche, was conferred on thee! + Conveyed from tongue to tongue, its throne it found + In memory’s archives:--its melodious sound + Now breathes the angel-harmony of love, + A music and a radiance from above. + + +FROM THE DUSHENKA.--p. 49. + + Dushenka! Dushenka! the robes that thou wearest + Seem ever most lovely and fitting: + Whether clad like a queen of the east thou appearest, + Or plain as a shepherdess sitting + By the door of her cottage at evening’s calm tide, + Thou still art the charm of the world and its pride! + Thou fairest of saints that devotion has sainted, + Divinest of all the divine:-- + All the pictures of beauty that art ever painted + Can give no idea of thine! + + +THE INEXPERIENCED SHEPHERDESS. + +A POPULAR SONG. + + I’m fourteen summers old, I trow, + ’Tis time to look about me now: + ’Twas only yesterday they said, + I was a silly, silly maid;-- + ’Tis time to look about me now. + + The shepherd-swains so rudely stare, + I must reprove them, I declare; + This talks of beauty--_that_ of love-- + I’m such a fool I can’t reprove-- + I _must_ reprove them, I declare. + + ’Tis strange--but yet I hope no sin; + Something unwonted speaks within: + Love’s language is a mystery, + And yet I feel, and yet I see,-- + O what is this that speaks within? + + The shepherd cries, “I love thee, sweet;” + “And I love _thee_,” my lips repeat: + Kind words, they sound as sweet to me + As music’s fairest melody; + “I love thee,” oft my lips repeat. + + His pledge he brings,--I’ll _not_ reprove; + O no! I’ll take that pledge of love; + To thee my guardian dog I’d give, + Could I without that guardian live: + But still I’ll take thy pledge of love. + + My shepherd’s crook I’ll give to thee;-- + O no! my father gave it me-- + And treasures by a parent given, + From a fond child should ne’er be riven-- + O no! my father gave it me. + + But thou shalt have yon lambkin fair-- + Nay! ’tis my mother’s fondest care; + For every day she joys to count + Each snowy lambkin on the mount;-- + I’ll give thee then no lambkin fair. + + But stay, my shepherd! wilt thou be + For ever faithful--fond to me? + A sweeter gift I’ll then impart, + And thou shalt have--a maiden’s heart, + If thou wilt give thy heart to me. + + +SONG FROM THE OLD RUSSIAN. + + Hark! those tones of music stealing + Through yon wood at even: + Sweetest songs that breathe a feeling + Pure and bright as heaven. + + Nightingales in chorus near thee, + All their notes are blending; + Then they stop their songs to hear thee, + Silent--unpretending. + + +SONG FROM THE OLD RUSSIAN. + + What to the maiden has happened? + What to the gem of the village? + Ah! to the gem of the village. + + Seated alone in her cottage. + Tremblingly turned to the window; + Ah! ever turned to the window. + + Like the sweet bird in its prison, + Pining and panting for freedom; + Ah! how ’tis pining for freedom! + + Crowds of her youthful companions + Come to console the lov’d maiden; + Ah! to console the lov’d maiden. + + “Smile then, our sister! be joyful, + Clouds of dust cover the valley; + Oh! see, they cover the valley. + + “Smile then, our sister! be joyful, + List to the hoof-beat of horses; + O! to the hoof-beat of horses.” + + Then the maid looked through the window, + Saw the dust-clouds in the valley; + O! the dust-clouds in the valley: + + Heard the hoof-beat of the horses, + Hurried away from the cottage; + O! to the valley she hurries. + + “Welcome! welcome! thou lov’d one:” + See, she has sunk on his bosom; + O! she has sunk on his bosom. + + Now all her grief is departed: + She has forsaken the window: + O! quite forsaken the window. + + Now her eye looks on her lov’d one, + Beaming with brightness and beauty; + O! ’tis all brightness and beauty. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Dusha--Dushenka its diminutive, a word expressing great tenderness +and fondness. + + + + +DAVĬDOV. + + +WISDOM. + + While honouring the grape’s ruby nectar, + All sportingly, laughingly gay; + We determined--I, Silvia, and Hector, + To drive old dame Wisdom away. + + “O my children, take care,” said the beldame, + “Attend to these counsels of mine: + Get not tipsy! for danger is seldom + Remote from the goblet of wine.” + + “With thee in his company, no man + Can err,” said our wag with a wink; + “But come, thou good-natured old woman, + There’s a drop in the goblet--and drink!” + + She frown’d--but her scruples soon twisting, + Consented:--and smilingly said: + “So polite--there’s indeed no resisting, + For Wisdom was never ill-bred.” + + She drank, but continued her teaching: + “Let the wise from indulgence refrain;” + And never gave over her preaching, + But to say “Fill the goblet again.” + + And she drank, and she totter’d, but still she + Was talking and shaking her head: + Mutter’d “temperance”--“prudence”--until she + Was carried by Folly[1] to bed. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] The original has _Love_. + + + + +KOSTROV. + + +THE VOW. + + The rose is my favourite flower: + On its tablets of crimson I swore, + That up to my last living hour + I never would think of thee more. + + I scarcely the record had made, + Ere Zephyr, in frolicsome play, + On his light, airy pinions convey’d + Both tablet and promise away. + + +HISTORY OF MAN. + +ANONYMOUS. + + What is man’s history? Born--living--dying-- + Leaving the still shore for the troubled wave-- + Struggling with storm-winds, over shipwrecks flying, + And casting anchor in the silent grave. + + B. + + + + +NELEDINSKY MELETZKY. + + +SONG. + + Under the oak-tree; near the rill, + Sits my fair maiden at evening still, + Singing her song, her song of love, + Sweetly it warbles through the grove. + + The nightingale heard the heavenly tone, + And blended the music with his own: + My ears drink in the wondrous strain, + And my spirit re-echoes the song again. + + How oft the zephyrs have brought to me + Delighted, those accents of harmony! + How oft have I blamed the jealous breeze + That scatter’d the music amidst the trees! + + Listen awhile, thou nightingale! + Echo the song from hill to vale: + Though hill and vale enraptured be, + Sweeter the music sounds to _me_! + + +SONG. + + To the streamlet I’ll repair, + Look upon its flight, and say: + “Bear, O fleeting streamlet! bear + All my griefs with thine away.” + + Ah! I breathe the wish in vain! + In this silent solitude + Counted is each throb of pain;-- + Rest is melancholy’s food. + + Waves with waves unceasing blend, + Hurrying to their destiny: + Even so, thoughts with thoughts, and tend + All alike to misery. + + And what grief so dark, so deep + As the grief interred within? + By the friend, for whom I weep, + All unnoticed, all unseen. + + Yet, could I subdue my pain, + Soothe affection’s rankling smart, + Ne’er would I resume again + The lost empire of my heart. + + Thou, my love! art sovereign there, + There thou hast a living shrine: + Let my portion be despair, + If the light of bliss be thine. + + Loved by thee, O might I live, + ’Neath the darkest, stormiest sky: + ’Twere a blest alternative! + Grief is joy, if thou be nigh. + + Every wish and every pray’r + Is a tribute paid to thee: + Every heart-beat--there, O there, + Thou hast mightiest sovereignty. + + To thee, nameless one! to thee + Still my thoughts, my passions turn; + ’Tis through thee alone I see, + Think, and feel, and breathe and burn. + + If the woe in which I live, + Ever reach thy generous ear; + Pity not--but O forgive + Thy devoted worshipper! + + In some hour of careless bliss, + Deign my bosom’s fire to prove; + Prove it with an icy kiss-- + Thou shalt know how much I love! + + +SONG. + + He whom misery, dark and dreary, + Robs of all his spirit’s strength; + Hopeless--but that wasted, weary, + Nature shall repose at length: + Not a joy to sparkle o’er him, + Not a ray of promised light; + Till the deep grave yawns before him, + Till his eye is closed in night. + + Such am I;--time’s changes borrow + All their interest from thee: + Life is but a midnight sorrow, + Thou, life’s sun-shine, veiled from me. + But those hopes, with angels seated, + Life and death can ne’er subdue; + And the heart to thee related, + Needs must be immortal too. + + Can that spirit ever perish, + Which divine emotions fill? + Thee on earth I loved to cherish, + Thee in heaven must cherish still; + Like a shadow to thee clinging, + Ever following--ever nigh; + Up to thee each look is springing, + Every word, and thought, and sigh. + + Up to thee, my saint, my lover! + Up to thee my soul is led: + Spirit, wilt thou deign to hover + O’er my green and grassy bed? + Wilt thou from thy throne descending, + Catch thy fond one’s dying breath? + Wilt thou, near his tomb attending, + Consecrate the dreams of death? + + + + +NATIONAL SONGS. + + +I. + + Upon its little turfy hill, the desert’s charm and pride, + The tall oak in his majesty extends his branches wide: + His shadow covers half the waste, and there he stands alone, + Like a poor soldier on the watch, a sad abandoned one! + And who, when wakes the glowing sun, thy friendly shade shall seek? + Or shield thee when the thunder rolls, and when the lightnings break? + No graceful pine protects thee now, no willow waves its head, + No sheltering ivy’s dark green leaves are midst thy branches spread! + Alas! ’tis sad to stand alone, thus banished from the grove; + But bitterer far for youth to mourn divided from his love! + Though gold and silver, wealth and fame, and honours he possess, + With none t’ enjoy them, none to share, they are but nothingness. + Cold is the converse of the world--a greeting, and no more! + And beauty’s converse colder still--a word, and all is o’er: + Some shun my presence, and from some scorn bids my spirit fly: + Though all are lovers, all are friends, till tempests veil the sky. + But where’s the breast where I may sleep, when those dark moments come? + For he who loved me cannot hear, he slumbers in the tomb! + Alas! I long have lost the joys of friend and family, + And the fair maid that I adore looks carelessly on me: + No aged parents on our heads their benedictions pour: + No children to our bosoms creep, or play upon our floor; + O take away your wealth, your fame, your honours, treasures vile, + And give me in their stead, a home--a love--and love’s sweet smile. + + +II. + +ABSENCE. + + Why wilt thou think that thy heart’s distress + May find relief in tear or sigh? + Thou art abandoned to loneliness-- + To loneliness and to misery. + Severing oceans between you roll, + And frowning mountain-barriers rise; + She may not read thy faithful soul-- + She may not witness tears or sighs. + + Weak and wayward spirit to deem + That the wing of the zephyr will bear to her + Soft as the flight of childhood’s dream + The orisons of her worshipper! + That the gale’s light fragrant breath will bring + Music of thine to thy maiden’s ear, + What time the day-star triumphing + Looks from his throne on the waking sphere. + + Yet cherish the hope--tho’ weak and wild, + Its promise of joy thy bosom may bless-- + But thou--thou, sorrow’s devoted child! + Soon wilt be left to thy loneliness, + To thy loneliness and thy misery-- + Oceans and mountains divide you far; + Never her smile shall light on thee, + Ne’er shalt thou welcome that heavenly star. + + +III. + + Thou field of my own, thou field so fair! + So wide, extensive, fertile there! + Adorned with gems so gay and bright-- + With flowers, and butterflies, and bees, + And plants, and shrubs, and leafy trees-- + Thou hast but one ungrateful sight! + + See there upon the broom-tree’s bough, + The young gray eagle flapping now, + O’er the raven black, that he tears asunder, + Whose warm red blood is dropping under, + And sprinkles the moistened ground below: + The raven black--a wild one he! + And the eagle gray--his enemy! + + No swallow, gliding round and round + His homely happy nest, is found;-- + But a mother is seen in the darksome vale, + Or sad by the raging ocean’s tide; + A sister sighs on the fountain’s side, + A lover weeps in the night-dews pale-- + The sun shines forth--the dews are dried[1]. + + +IV.[2] + + A young maid sat upon the streamlet’s side, + And thought most tearfully on her bitter fate; + Her bitter fate, and on departed time-- + Departed time--the glad, exulting time; + And there the lovely maiden robed herself, + She robed herself, with many adornings robed, + And waited anxious for her trusted friend-- + Waited for her trusted friend:--a ruffian he! + He played the ruffian with the maid and fled:-- + Alas! love’s flower of hope is withered! + + Well may that lonely flower decay and die! + She calls in vain--she wipes her tears away: + Thee, rapid streamlet! they may fill, and roll + Over thy bosom--make thy bed of tears: + “I had adorned me for that faithless friend, + That faithless friend is fled:--he hath stolen all, + All my possessions but my grief:--that grief + He left in mercy, if that grief can kill. + Come, death! I veil me in thy shadows dim-- + To thee I fly, as once I flew to him!” + + +V. + + Upon that brow, so soft, so fair, + Why sit those frowns?-- O why should I + Plant bitter flowers of anger there? + O tell me, more than angel, why? + + I have been wretched--did I e’er + Trouble thy peace with my distress? + Did I invite thee, say, to hear + The story of my wretchedness? + + O no! I sigh’d midst rocks and groves, + That thou might’st never know I sigh’d: + I wept where stillest water roves:-- + The tear but swell’d the silent tide. + + Forget me--for my love shall be + Enough for both:--undying, bright-- + Winged for an immortality, + And filling all the tomb with light. + + +VI. + +DIRGE. + + Not to-day he the young rose sought, + For she was fairer than the rose: + Hers be the cypress, dark as thought; + Yew that over the still grave grows. + Can ye remember her sigh, her tear + O’er a departed one, fair as she? + Such were a tribute meet for her, + Meet for us, and our misery. + + O forget her sweet smiles--forget + All that she was:--she is nothing now. + Scatter the purple violet; + O’er her green pillow the snow-drop throw! + Come with the eve; let your requiem + Mount on the breeze o’er the grassy heap: + Thousand spirits shall join the hymn, + Watching over her slumbers deep. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] This composition refers, no doubt, to some historical or +traditionary tale, without the knowledge of which it would seem +unintelligible. I translate it as rather a striking specimen of popular +Russian songs. + +[2] The peculiarities of the original are preserved in this song; such +repetitions as here occur are quite characteristic of the national +poetry of Russia. + + + + +BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. + + +LOMONOSOV. + +Michael Vassiljevich Lomonosov was born in Cholmognie in 1711. He +was the son of a sailor. He studied Latin and Greek, rhetoric and +poetry, in Sakonospaskoe Uchilishchœ. In 1734 he entered the imperial +academy, and two years afterwards was sent to Germany as a student. +On his return to Petersburg he was appointed to the professorship of +Chemistry; in 1751 he was made associate of the academy, and in 1760 +called to the directorship of the academical gymnasium and of the +university. He died in 1765. + +The Petersburg Academy of Sciences published a complete collection +of his works, in sixteen volumes, which reached a third edition in +1804. They comprise the following remarkable list, exhibiting a rare +diversity of subjects: among them his prose productions are: _Kratkii +Lœtopisetz_, Short Russian Annals; _Drevnjeje Rossiiskaje Istorije_, +Oldest Russian History, from the beginning of the Russian people to +the death of the great prince Jaropolk the First, _i. e._ down to +the year 1054; _Rossiiskaje Grammatika_, Russian Grammar; _Kratkoe +Rukovodetvo k Krasnorœchiiu_, Short Introduction to Rhetoric; _Pismo o +pravilakh Rossiiskago Stikhomvorstva_, Letter on the Rules of Russian +Poetry; _Predislovie o polzœ Knig Tzerkovnĭkh_, Remarks on the Uses of +Church-Books; _Slovo Pokhvalnoe Imperatritzœ Elisavetœ I._, Eulogium on +the Empress Elizabeth (which he himself translated into Latin); _Slovo +pokhvalnoe Imperatoru Petru Velikomu_, Eulogium on Peter the Great; +_Slovo o polzœ Khimii_, On the Use of Chemistry; _Slovo o jevlenijekh +vosdushnĭkh ot Elektricheskoi silĭ proizkhodjeshchikh_, On Electrical +Phenomena; _Slovo o proizkhozhdenii sœta novuiu teriiu o tzvœtakh +predstavljeiushchee_, On the Origin of Light, exhibiting the new theory +of Colours; _Slovo o pozhdenii Metallov ot trjesenije zemli_, On the +Changes produced on Metals by earthquakes; _Rosuzhdenie o bolshei +tochnosti Morskago puti_, On the means of obtaining the greatest +correctness in Sea Voyages; _Jevlenie Venerĭ na solntzœ_, Appearance of +Venus on the Sun’s Disk; _Programma sochinennaje tri nachalæ chenije +is jesnenije Phisiki_, Programma, introductory to Lectures on Physic; +_Opisanie v nachalœ 1744 goda jevivshijesje Kometĭ_, Description of +the Comet of 1744; _Pervĭje osnovanije Metallurgii_, Introduction to +Metallurgy; _Shestnadtzat’ piset k J. J. Shuvalovu_, Sixteen Letters to +J. J. Shuvalov. + +His poems are--two books of an Heroic Epic entitled _Peter Velikii_, +Peter the Great; _Tamira i Selim_, a Tragedy; _Demophont_, a Tragedy; +_Pismo o Pol’sœ Stekla_, A Poetical Epistle on the Merits of Glass, +addressed to Shuvalov, of which a French prose translation was +published in Paris in 1800; _Oda na Shchastiee_, Ode to Happiness, +from the French of J. B. Rousseau; _Vanchannaje nadezhda Rossiiskoi +Imperii_, The Garlanded Hope of the Russian Empire, from the German of +Professor Junker; eleven spiritual odes; encomiastic odes; forty-nine +laudatory inscriptions; poem on a firework; _Polydore_, an Idyl, and +sundry smaller pieces; imitations of Anacreon, poetical epistles, +translations, &c. &c. + +Besides his philosophical prose writings, he published _Rasgovor v +tzarstvœ Mertvĭkh_, Dialogue in the Realms of Death, between Alexander +the Great, Hannibal, and Scipio, from the Greek of Lucian; and +_Rasgavor utro_, A Discourse on Morning, from Erasmus. + + +DERZHAVIN. + +Gabriel Romanovich Derzhavin was born at Kasan on the 3d of July, 1736. +The elements of instruction were given to him in the house of his +parents; he then studied in private academies, and afterwards completed +his education in the imperial gymnasium. In 1760 he was inscribed in +the engineer military service; and in the following year, as a reward +for his great progress in the mathematics, and for his excellent +description of the Bulgarian ruins on the banks of the Wolga, he was +placed in the ranks of the Preobrashenshe regiment. From the year 1762 +he was promoted through the different gradations to the rank of ensign, +which he held in 1772, and he obtained great credit for his prudence +and ability while engaged as lieutenant in the corps sent to reduce +Pugachev in 1774. He advanced uninterruptedly in his military career +till in 1784 he was made a counsellor of state, and appointed to the +government first of Oloretz and afterwards of Tambov. In 1791 the +Empress Catherine the Second gave him the office of secretary of state; +in 1793 he was called to the senate, and the next year he was made +president of the college of Commerce. In the year 1800 he was appointed +to the post of public cashier, and in 1802 to that of minister of +justice. His official career was soon after closed by his retiring on +his full allowance, in the evening of his days, to the enjoyment of the +fruits of his long and active labours. + +Such a life would appear little calculated for the pursuit of +intellectual pleasures, or for the cultivation of poetical talents; but +the energies of these seem to be alike uninfluenced by the burthens of +pomp or the privations of poverty. None is too high to bend down to the +attractive voice of song--none too low to be raised by the awakening +call of the lyre. + +The most celebrated compositions of Derzhavin are, his Ode to God; +Felitza; On the Birth of Alexander; The First Neighbour; On the +Death of Count Meshchersky; On the Swedish Peace; The Fountain; The +Waterfall; Autumn; and the Anacreontic Songs. His Poems were printed in +four volumes in 1808. + +Of his prose works (his official ones of course excepted) the most +celebrated are: _Rœch ot litza Kazanskago Dvorjenstva Imperatritzœ +Ekaterinœ II._, Address of the Kasan Eagle to the Empress Catherine +the Second; _Topographicheskoe Opshanie Tambovskoi Gubernii_, +Topographical Description of the Tambov Government; _Rœch na otkrĭtie +v Tambovœ Narodnago Ichilishcha_, Address on the opening of the Tambov +Public School, republished in Petersburg, and translated into several +languages; _Razsuzhdenie o Liricheskom Stikhotvorstvœ_, On Lyric +Poetry, published by a Society of Amateurs of Russian Literature in +1811. + + +BOGDANOVICH. + +TRANSLATED FROM KARAMSIN’S VŒSTNIK[1]. + +Hippolïtus Bogdanovich was born under the beautiful heaven of Little +Russia, in the village of Perevolotchno, in the year 1743. His father +was a respectable physician, to whose affectionate care and to that +of an excellent mother he owed the first rudiments of knowledge. +The talents which often require long years to ripen and to perfect, +sometimes exhibit their blossoms in very early youth, and Bogdanovich +while quite a child showed a passionate fondness for reading and +writing, for music and poetry. + +He was brought to Moscow in 1754, and placed in the college of justice. +The President Sheljebushsky noticed the active and inquiring spirit +of the boy, and allowed him to attend the mathematical school, which +was at that time in the neighbourhood of the senate. But mathematics +were nothing to him;--the sweet poetry of Lomonosov, who now began +to captivate his countrymen, was dearer to his mind than all the +transpositions of lines or figures. Nothing, perhaps, is so likely +to produce a strong and permanent impression on the heart of a young +enthusiast, as the pomp, parade, and poetry of the Drama. What wonder +then that a fiery boy, introduced for the first time to its witcheries, +should be led to some act of giddy imprudence! A youth of fifteen once +presented himself to the director of the Moskow theatre, modestly and +almost unwillingly owning--he was a nobleman--he would be an actor. +The director had some conversation with him, and soon ascertained his +love of knowledge and his poetical ardour. He painted in strong colours +the incompatibility of an actor’s character with that of nobility,--he +urged him to inscribe himself in the university, and to visit him at +his house. This young man was no other than our Bogdanovich,--that +director was no other than Michael Matveevich Kheraskov, the poet +of the Russiad. Thus did a lucky accident bring this scholar of the +muses to their favourite bard; one who, possessed of extraordinary +talent himself, was not slow to discover and to honour it in others. +From him did Bogdanovich learn the rules and the ornaments of poetry; +he studied foreign languages, and acquired whatever else might give +strength and encouragement to his natural powers. Study, it is true, +is no _creator_ of genius, but it serves to exhibit it in all its most +beautiful and mighty influence. Kheraskov gave him examples, precepts, +encouragements; and in the university-journal of this period, _Polesnoe +Uveselenie_, we find many specimens of the powers of the young bard. +These, though yet far removed from perfection, are striking proofs of +his ability to reach it. + +Besides Kheraskov, our young poet possessed, while he remained at the +university, another invaluable protector in Count Michael Ivanovich +Dashkov. The favours conferred by rank and influence on talents just +developing themselves, create a grateful and well-rewarding return; +while, on the other hand, the fair and delicate flowers of youthful +genius are but too often and too early blasted by the cold winds of +neglect. But let it be said in Russia’s honour, that talent has never +wanted patronage there, especially if accompanied by moral worth. +This was eminently the case with Bogdanovich. Like La Fontaine, in +whose poetical steps he seems to have trodden, he was distinguished +by the most attractive ingenuousness. Ere he was eighteen he held his +station in the great and busy world, but held it with the simplicity +of a child. Whatever he felt he uttered, whatever pleased him he did; +he listened willingly to the wisdom of others, and fell asleep during +the tiresome lessons of folly. It was our young bard’s good fortune to +live with a poet who exacted the productions of his muse as the price +of his protection and his counsels, leaving every thing else to his own +waywardness. His open heartedness often led him into perplexities, but +no sooner did he perceive that his conversation had inflicted on any +a feeling or thought of sorrow than he lamented his inconsiderateness +with tears. He determined again and again to talk more warily; the +resolution was, however, soon forgotten, and succeeded by regret and +repentance and renewed vows. + +He was not rich; he often had nothing to give the poor but sympathy. +Is not this often more grateful to the receiver, and always more +honourable to the giver, than the pieces of gold extorted by misery +from the coldness of pride and of affluence? Towards his friends and +acquaintances he was kindness and urbanity itself. On one occasion +a fire broke out in the neighbourhood of one of his connexions. +Bogdanovich sprung from his bed, and, in spite of the bad weather and +the distance, hurried to the assistance of his friend, clad only in his +night garment. + +His dwelling was with an estimable family, who treated him as a near +and dear relative, and he returned their kindness with ever-active +affection. + +We must here linger a little on one mark of character, common indeed +to all genuine poets;--a lively sensibility to female charms, a +sensibility which has been the creator of some of the sweetest songs +of the choir of bards. In one who, like Bogdanovich, was born to be +the poet of the graces, this mighty sympathy could not but be early +developed among the sensibilities of his character. In its origin it is +timid and unpretending--in him it was peculiarly so. He saw, he felt, +he supplicated, he blushed--and uttered his emotions in his harmonious +songs. Stern indeed must have been the beauty that could not be moved +by that melodious lyre! + +In 1761 Bogdanovich was appointed inspector of the Moscow university, +with the rank of officer. Soon after he was joined to the commission +appointed to make the arrangements for celebrating the coronation of +Catherine the Second, in Moscow. He was fixed on for preparing the +inscriptions on the triumphal gates and arches. In 1763, through the +recommendation of the Countess Dashkov, he was employed by Panin as +a translator; and at this period he published a journal entitled, +_Nevinnoe Uprashnenie_, Innocent Recreation, to which his protectress, +and the protectress of literature, of native literature especially, +most generously contributed. And now our poet soared in loftier +flights: he translated most felicitously many of Voltaire’s poems, +especially that on the Destruction of Lisbon, in which his version has +added greatly to the beauty and the strength of the original. A number +of pieces, distinguished for the exquisiteness of the feeling and the +peculiar harmony of the expression, directed the public attention to +him. Among these is that beautiful song to Climene: + + Yes! since bliss is now my lot, + I will live to love thee, fairest: + Thou, that _I_ may live, wilt not + Now refuse to love me, dearest! + +In 1765 he published a poem with the title, The Doubled Bliss. It is +divided into three parts, the first of which is a description of the +golden age; the second, a history of the progress of civilization and +of knowledge, with pictures of the misdirection and misuse of the human +passions; the last, on the salutary influence of laws and governments. +This undertaking was too vast for the youthful strength of the poet. +The work had some redeeming beauties, but it made little impression +upon society in general. At this period, notwithstanding, the laurels +were rapidly growing that were to crown the brow of Bogdanovich;--but +those laurels were then unnoticed. + +In 1766 he went with Count Beloselsky as secretary of legation to +Dresden. The amiable character of this ambassador, the brilliant +society which he took with him and gathered round him, the attractive +and picturesque neighbourhood of his dwelling, and his high +appreciation of the arts, made the poet’s abode so delightful to him +that it left the fairest record on his memory, and produced a happy +influence on the character of his writings. While he wandered enchanted +on the flowery borders of the Elbe, whose nymphs, worthy of that +magnificent stream, excited all the strength of his glowing fancy; +while the works of Correggio, Rubens, and Paul Veronese charmed his eye +and guided his mind in the beautiful creation of his _Dushenka_, which +now engaged it; he was at the same time busied in writing a Description +of Germany, and in all the duties of his office he united the charms of +a man of the world, a friend of science, and a poet. + +He left Dresden in 1768 and hastened back to his own country, devoting +himself wholly to the cultivation of knowledge and the charms of +song. He translated many articles from the _Encyclopédie_, Vertot’s +History of the Changes of the Roman Republic, St. Pierre’s Treatise +on Permanent Peace, and the Poem of an Italian writer, Michael Angelo +Gignetti, then settled at Petersburg. The subject was Catherine +the Great, which led to his introduction to that empress. He next +published a periodical, of which sixteen numbers appeared (_Vœstnik +Petersburgsky_); and at last, in 1775, he laid his beautiful poem +_Dushenka_ on the altar of the Graces. He ever afterwards spoke +with enthusiastic delight of that part of his life which had been +employed in this work. His abode was then at Petersburg, on the +_Vassiliostrov_, in a silent solitary dwelling, wholly rapt in poetry +and music, enjoying an enviable and care-divested liberty. He had +agreeable acquaintances;--he sometimes went out, but always to return +with keener pleasure to a home where the muses welcomed him with +renewed fondness, with hope and fancy’s fairest flowers. The tranquil, +unuttered, unutterable joy of the poet is perhaps the sweetest and +brightest that this world can witness. How triumphantly do the favoured +sons of song scatter the misty shades of vanity and the more palpable +array of earth-born passion! Who that ever tasted the charm of such +enviable moments, does not turn away from the sparkling follies of the +substantial world to the memory of those holy hours of rapture? One +energetic and harmonious line--one well-conveyed emotion--a gentle, +graceful transit from one thought to another--can fill the soul of +the poet with innocent and natural delight, leaving behind it a soft +and placid gladsomeness which will be doubly grateful if it can be +participated by some sympathizing and sensible friend, who can enter +into its enthusiasm and forgive its excess. It is indeed a guiltless +and a spiritual joy, created by an effort, which effort is in itself +enjoyment: and then it brings the prospect of the approbation, the +encouragement of the wise and good!--But envy! envy!--the pitiful +efforts of envy itself only make its triumphs the more splendid--they +dash and murmur like the little waves against the firm foot of the +mountain, on which true merit raises itself in its own majesty, for the +glory of its country and of mankind. + +The story of Psyche is one of the most attractive which has been handed +down to us by classic mythology. It originally conveyed a beautiful and +impressive allegory, whose charm has been obscured and whose interest +almost lost in the many embellishments with which a series of poets +have crowded the simple tale; a tale in fact only intended to describe +the nuptials of the god of love with Psyche, and the consequent birth +of the goddess of enjoyment: the obvious sense of which is, that when +the soul is filled with love, it enjoys the highest possible portion +of pleasure. From this unadorned fable Apuleius drew a charming story, +more indeed like the fairy-tales of modern days than the μυθοι of the +old Grecian age. On this production of Apuleius La Fontaine founded +his fascinating Psyche, adding numberless beauties to his original, +and delightfully mingling verse and prose--the strikingly impressive +with the playfully good-humoured. To the Psyche of France we owe the +Russian Dushenka; but our poet, though he never loses sight of his +exemplar, goes onwards in his own path of flowers, and gathers many a +one which the French poet overlooked or disregarded. La Fontaine has +more of art--Bogdanovich of nature;--and the current of the latter +flows in consequence more refreshingly. Besides, Dushenka is wholly +in verse, and good verse is certainly greatly better than good prose, +and rarer too. The most laborious efforts of art are also the most +valued[2]; and thus it is that the purest and most harmonious prose can +never give to a representation the energy or the interest which it may +derive from the power of verse, to which indeed whatever is mysterious +and supernatural more especially belongs. This La Fontaine constantly +felt, and sought shelter for his highest efforts and sweetest fancies +in the regions of song. How much better had he done, if he had made his +Psyche a continuous poem! Bogdanovich’s Dushenka is so. Where exists +the Russian who has not read Dushenka? + +This production must not be weighed in the scales of Aristotle. It is a +display of the powers of a gay and joyous imagination, directed by good +taste. It is sportive, excursive, ingenuous, faithful:--Why must rules +of art be intruded here? + +[Karamsin then goes on to compare the French with the Russian fabulist, +giving the most striking passages from the Dushenka, and “strewing,” as +he says, “the grave of the poet with his own flowers.”] + +Is it surprising that such a poem produced so great an impression? Six +or seven sheets thrown uncalled for into the world, wholly changed the +fate of the author. Catherine was then reigning in Russia. She saw, she +admired the Dushenka--sent for the poet, and inquired of him how she +could gratify him.--It was enough--who doubts the taste of a sovereign? +Nobles and courtiers learnt Dushenka by heart, each rivalling the +rest in the attentions showered upon the author. Epistles, odes, and +madrigals in his honour were scattered profusely. He was mounted above +the clouds.--Alas! that the destructive influence of such distinctions +should have overshadowed him in the brightest epoch of his poetic +talents. He was thirty years old--he abandoned the muses--and the +garland woven for him by his Dushenka was the only one that encircled +his brow in his listless lethargy. It is an imperishable wreath, no +doubt, but the friends of poetry mourn that it should have satisfied +him. Even the thirst for fame may be quenched. Our poet afterwards +wrote much, but against his own will and against the will of his +inspiring genius. Perhaps he would set up no rival to his beloved +Dushenka. + +From 1775 to 1789 he published the following works: Historical +Description of Russia--an imperfect essay, which however is very well +written; only the first volume appeared. A Comedy in verse--The Joy of +Dushenka;--The Sclavonian Woman, and two dramatised proverbs. Catherine +encouraged him to write for the stage, and sent him _brilliant_ +presents on the production of these pieces. The Sclavonian piece made +a strong impression. It represents the festivities with which the old +Sclavonians welcomed the return of the twenty-fifth year of the reign +of their “Great Princes,” and it was produced just at the period when +Catherine had swayed the Russian sceptre for a quarter of a century. + +At the request of the Empress he also published a collection of +Russian proverbs, and wrote some small poems in the _Sobesœdnik_, The +Companion, a weekly periodical, which appeared at Petersburg in 1788 +and 9. Many of these graceful trifles are full of wit and gaiety, and +the song “I’m fourteen summers old,” &c. (p. 168) has become one of +the most popular national songs in Russia. He also translated at this +time the best eulogiums, such as Voltaire’s and Marmontel’s, on the +Empress, and the compositions lost nothing of their effect in being +thus transferred to our language. + +In the poet let us not forget the man. He was made associate of the +Archives at Petersburg in 1780, and in 1788 was elected president. +In 1795 he was dismissed from service, in which he had been engaged +forty-one years. The salary was continued to him in the form of a +pension. He left Petersburg the following year. The then unfortunate +state of Europe--those dreadful revolutions which shook individuals +as well as nations, added to many personal sorrows, excited in +his sensitive mind the ardent longing after a peaceful solitude. A +beautiful climate--the sweet recollections of youth--the bonds of +early friendship and of brotherhood--invited him to the fair fields +of Little Russia. He went to Sumii, intending to glide calmly and +silently through the evening of life, in the circle of his connections, +and reposing on the bosom of nature. The first weeks and months he +passed in those retreats were ineffably happy. His spirits had never +been so free and so tranquil. No phantoms disturbed his peace. A pure +conscience, the recollections of fifty years passed in unbroken but +serene activity--a poetical but strong mind--an active strength of +fancy--an excellent library--the friendliest union with good men and +beloved relatives--and the uniformity of an ingenuous and happy life, a +life which had been so full of allurements--these were the sources of +that happiness which he here enjoyed--a real enviable happiness, such +as is sought by all, who amidst the world’s tumultuousness strive after +their own fame, and their fellow-creatures’ well-being;--that happiness +_he_ had sighed after to decorate the peaceful though sometimes gloomy +days of eventide:--but “In this world where shall peace be found?” + +And Bogdanovich did not enjoy it long:--An unfortunate attachment drove +him from the haven where he deemed himself to be safely anchored from +all the storms of life. He abandoned friends, relatives, the silent +abodes of peace and happiness, that he might fly from this ever-ruling +passion. In the years when the sun of life sinks rapidly towards its +setting, and the calm of nature seems to invite to closer communion +with what is left of earthly pleasure, it is then the passions are most +terrible.--Youth is supported by hope--but age has no such stay. It +hears alone the strong voice of reason, which will not approve of the +useless murmurs against destiny. Every heart that can feel will look +with sorrow on this period of our poet’s existence. + +In the year 1798 he again returned to Kursk, in whose neighbourhood he +had long been wandering. Alexander mounted the Russian throne. And when +every eye of patriotism, bright with hope and joy, was turned upon the +young monarch, Bogdanovich again seized his long neglected lyre, and +received from the Emperor a ring as the token of his approval. The +poet of Dushenka had had the honour of gratifying Catherine the Great; +should not her illustrious grandson deign also to honour him? + +The health of Bogdanovich had been always indifferent; in the beginning +of December, 1802, it began visibly to decay, and on the 6th of +January, 1803, he died, mourned by his acquaintances and friends, and +by every friend of the literature of his country; for he had not yet +attained those venerable years when the last and only blessing which +heaven can confer on the son of mortality is to soothe and brighten his +passage to the realms of eternity. + +It is said that the character of an author is best painted in his +works; but it is surely safer to take into account the opinions and +observations of those who knew him best. And here then we must listen +to the unvarying voice of praise. All speak of his meekness, his +feeling heart, his unselfishness, and that innocent gaiety which played +around him to the end of his days, and gave a peculiar charm to his +society. He had no pride of authorship. He seldom spoke of literature +or of poetry, and always with an unaffected modesty, which seemed to +have been born with him. He loved not criticism, which often destroys +even the honestest self-complacency, and he often confessed that its +severity would have driven him wholly away from the exercises of his +pen. + +His memory will be cherished by his friends and the friends of Russian +genius; and the sweet--the feeling--the acute--the joyous poet of +Dushenka will be honoured by the future age. + + +KHEMNITZER. + +Ivan Ivanovich Khemnitzer was born of German parents at Petersburg, +in the year 1744. His father was of Saxon origin, and was attached as +physician to the country hospital of the Russian capital. From parents +of distinguished excellence our poet received the elements of a careful +education. It was his father’s wish that his son should succeed him in +his profession, but the unconquerable aversion of the latter to the +study of anatomy could never be subdued. He was enrolled in consequence +when thirteen years old in the regiment of guards, as sub-officer, and +made two campaigns against the Prussians and the Turks. This, however, +as he was wont to say, was “out of the rain into the river”--from the +theatre of anatomy to the martyr-chamber of surgery. He became in +consequence an engineer in the Berg cadet corps, having obtained the +rank of lieutenant in the Russian service. He won the love and the +confidence of all his superiors by his activity and uprightness. In +the year 1776, he accompanied one of his superior officers through +Germany, Holland, and France; and after his return to his country +applied himself ardently to his literary labours. In 1778 he published +the first volume of his fables; and on its reaching a second edition +about three years afterwards, he added to it another volume. One of +his particular friends and protectors quitting the service at this +period, he determined to do the same. He had no means of living +independently of his salary, and being compelled to look round him for +another engagement, he soon obtained the consul-generalship of Smirna. +The emoluments attached to this office led him to hope that in the +progress of a few years he should be enabled to retire comfortably +from active life, and this hope induced him to accept an office which +banished him from his country. That country he abandoned with a +heavy heart; and on separating from his friends, whom he loved with +indescribable affection, he seemed to sink under the thought that he +was bidding them a final farewell. In the autumn of 1782 he reached +Smirna;--indisposition greeted him on his arrival. The climate was +perhaps unfriendly; but his mind was more keenly affected by his exile +from that society in which he had so long breathed and lived, and which +had become a necessary element of his existence. He struggled long +against his illness:--it subdued him in the spring of 1784. + +This is a short outline of the serene and unpretending career of an +excellent man and an admirable poet, whose manners were as ingenuous +and unobtrusive as his life. In many respects he may be compared to +La Fontaine, his pattern and forerunner. The same goodness of heart, +the same blind confidence in his friends, the same carelessness and +inoffensiveness, and the same absence of mind, which formed the +prominent features of La Fontaine’s character, were developed with +singular fidelity in that of Khemnitzer. Of the last trait we will give +an example or two. When in Paris he once went to see the representation +of Tancred. On Le Cain’s appearance, he was so struck with the noble +and majestic presence of that renowned actor, that he rose from his +seat and bowed with lowly reverence. An universal roar of laughter +brought him back to himself. One morning a friend, for whom he had the +highest regard, related to him an interesting piece of news. Khemnitzer +dined with him afterwards, and as a piece of remarkable intelligence +narrated to his host that which his host had before communicated to +him. His friend reminded him of his forgetfulness. Khemnitzer was +greatly distressed, and in his perplexity, instead of his handkerchief, +he put his host’s napkin into his pocket. On rising from table +Khemnitzer endeavoured to slip away unobserved; his friend saw him, +followed him, and tried to detain him. Khemnitzer reproached him for +unveiling his weaknesses, and would not listen to any entreaties. +“Leave my napkin then, at least, which you pocketed at table,” said +the other. Khemnitzer drew it forth, and stood like a statue. The loud +laugh of the company recovered him from his trance, and with the utmost +good nature he joined in the general mirth. + +A very handsome edition of his fables was published in Petersburg, +1799, under the title _Basni i Skaski I. I. Khemnitzera v Trekh +Chastœkh_, Khemnitzer’s Fables and Tales. The third part consists of +posthumous fables, printed for the first time in this edition. + +In Germany the works of Khemnitzer have been often spoken of as models +and master-pieces[3]. Some of them are imitations of La Fontaine, some +of Gellert[4], but they are principally original. They are remarkable +for their purity of style--genuine Russian character--their _naïveté_ +and descriptive charms--their poetical smoothness--their singular +simplicity--and an original epigrammatic wit, most felicitously applied. + + +KOSTROV. + +Ermil Ivanovich Kostrov was born in the Vjetskish province. His father +was a vassal of the crown. He received the first part of his education +in the common school of his neighbourhood, and, in consequence of +his display of talent, was sent to the Moscow university, where he +obtained the rank of bachelor of arts, and was advanced to the post of +provincial secretary in 1782. He died on the 9th of December, 1796. +A collection of his poetry, which had been scattered in different +publications, was made in 1802 in two volumes. His translations, which +are much admired, are Homer’s Iliad, of which the seventh, eighth, +and ninth books were first printed in the European Herald, _Vœstnik +Evropĭ_. It is said he offered the last six books to a bookseller, and +the liberal tradesman offering him only one hundred and fifty rubles +(about 7_l._ 10_s._ sterling) for his labours, the offended poet threw +the translation into the fire. The first six books are the only ones +which have been collected. _Apuleev Solotoi Osel_, Apuleius’s Golden +Ass; Ossian, from a French version, on which he has greatly improved; +_Elvir i Zenotemsh_, a Poem of Ardouro; and Voltaire’s Tactique in +verse. + + +KARAMSIN. + +Nicolai Michaelovich Karamsin was born in the province of Limbersk +on the 1st of December, 1765. His earliest instructor was Professor +Schaden, of Moscow, from whose care he was removed to the university +of that place. In 1789-91 he travelled through central Europe, and +published in 1791 and 1801 his _Pi’sma Russkago Puteshestvennika_, +Letters of a Russian Traveller, which have been translated into +English. He took up his abode at Moscow on his return, and was +appointed the imperial historiographer in 1803. From his earliest youth +he exhibited a striking fondness for literary pursuits, and a great +number of his translations were printed in the Journal _Dœtskoechenie_, +Children’s Reading Book. The Idyl _Derevannaje_, The Wooden Foot, +was published in 1787. In the years 1792 and 1793 he published the +_Moskovskij Zhurnal_, Moscow Journal, in eight volumes. In 1794, two +parts of _Aglaia_, In 1797-8 and 9, a Collection of Poems, entitled +_Lonidĭ_. In 1798, his _Panteon Inostrannoi Slovesnosti_, Pantheon +of Foreign Literature, in three parts. In 1802-3, _Vœstnik Evropĭ_, +European Herald, in twelve volumes. His compositions which were printed +in the newspapers at Moscow, he published in 1794 with the title _Moi +Besdœlki_, My Trifles. Besides these, have been published his _Rosgavor +o Shchastii_, Discourse on Happiness; 1798, _Julia_, a Tale; and +_Pokhval’noe slovo Ekaterinœ Velikoi_, Eulogium on Catherine the Great. +In 1804 a collection of his works was printed in eight volumes. His +great work, The History of Russia, has been mentioned elsewhere in this +volume. + + +ZHUKOVSKY. + +Vassilj Andrejevich Zhukovsky was born in 1783. He was educated in the +public school at Tula and in the Moscow University, which he left in +1803. He held afterwards an appointment from the Russian government. +In 1808 and 1809 he edited the _Vœstnik Evropĭ_, European Herald, +in which he was afterwards joined by Kachenovsky. He has translated +Florian’s Don Quixote into Russian, and published in 1810-11, the best +collection of Russian poetry I am acquainted with, _Sobranie Rushkikh +Stikhotvorenii_, in 5 vols. Most of his productions were originally +printed in the above periodical. Of his poetical compositions, the most +esteemed are _Marina Roshcha_, Mary’s Goat, a tale; The _Moje Boginje_, +My Goddess, from Göthe: _Liudmilla_, and _Dvenadtzat Spjeshchikh Dœv_, +The twelve sleeping Virgins. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] A Periodical Journal.--See p. 238. + +[2] This is a maxim of the French school, and a very untenable one. The +characteristic of eminent genius is, that it produces the same and even +greater effect without laborious effort, which inferior merit requires +intense application to accomplish. + +[3] In No. 22 of the “_Freimüthigen_,” Kluschin speaks very approvingly +of the fables of Khemnitzer, and gives as an example “The Lion’s +mandate.” In a following number an anonymous writer claims this fable +for La Fontaine. It is singular enough that the Russian copy was +never written by Khemnitzer, though it was published in a volume of +his fables, but under the title of _Chuzhiiæ Basni_, Fables by other +Authors. + +[4] The imitations are always distinguished in the index from the +originals. + + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY R. AND A. TAYLOR, + SHOE LANE. + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes + + + ‣ Italics represented by surrounding _underscores_. + + ‣ Small caps converted to ALL CAPS. + + ‣ Footnotes renumbered consecutively within each chapter and moved + to the end of those respective chapters. + + ‣ Obvious typographic errors silently corrected. + + ‣ Variations in hypenation and spelling kept as in the original. + + ‣ Duplicate chapter titles omitted. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78744 *** |