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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78745 ***
+
+
+
+
+ РОССІЙСКАЯ АНТОЛОГІЯ.
+
+ SPECIMENS
+ OF THE
+ RUSSIAN POETS,
+
+ WITH
+ _INTRODUCTORY REMARKS_.
+
+ PART THE SECOND.
+
+ _Вамъ, вамъ плетутъ Хариты
+ Безамертные вѣнцы!
+ Я вами здѣсь вкушаю
+ Восторги Піеридъ,
+ И въ радости взываю:
+ О Музы! я Піитъ!_
+                 БАТЮШКОВЪ
+
+ BY
+
+ JOHN BOWRING, F.L.S.
+
+ AND HONORARY MEMBER OF SEVERAL FOREIGN
+ SOCIETIES.
+
+ LONDON:
+ PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER,
+ AVE-MARIA LANE.
+
+ 1823.
+
+
+
+
+ LONDON:
+ PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.
+
+
+
+
+ TO
+ HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY
+ ALEXANDER,
+ AUTOCRAT OF ALL THE RUSSIAS,
+ _&c. &c. &c._
+
+
+The flattering mark of approbation with which you were pleased to
+honour the former volume of the Russian Anthology, induces me to
+inscribe the name of your Majesty upon the dedication page of this.
+
+When the delusions of conquest and the records of political changes
+shall have passed away, the purer and nobler triumphs of civilization
+and literature will be remembered, and bear along the stream of time,
+to the gratitude of future generations, the names of their illustrious
+protectors. To have contributed to their influence is a glory which
+no time can tarnish--it is worthy of the worthiest--it will be your
+highest title--a title brighter than the brightest jewel of your
+imperial crown.
+
+The destiny of millions is in your Majesty’s hands. Under your
+auspices, your empire has made gigantic strides in knowledge and in
+power. The future is formed by the present. O, be it your most imperial
+ambition to make that knowledge and that power the source of virtue and
+of liberty! Such are the wishes, and such the hopes, of one to whom
+your reputation is dearer than to a thousand flatterers, and who is, in
+all sincerity,
+
+                                     Your Majesty’s most obedient,
+                                 And devoted humble servant,
+                                                       JOHN BOWRING.
+
+  _Boulogne Prison,
+    Oct. 20, 1822._
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION.
+
+
+I am encouraged to commit another volume of ‘Specimens of the Russian
+Poets,’ to that opinion which so kindly welcomed, and so favourably
+judged the former. I write now, instructed, and I hope benefited, by
+the very extensive notice which the first essay obtained; and I may
+indulge an honest feeling of complacency and pride in remembering,
+that, in almost every instance, candour and generosity characterised
+the literary articles to which my experiment gave birth. I avoided,
+generally, any criticism on the works for which I requested the patient
+judgment of my countrymen. I deemed the object most interesting
+to trace the early developement of poetical literature in a nation
+bursting into civilization. The spectacle was before me, and its
+phenomena left a strong impression on my mind. I was witnessing not
+a family, not a tribe, not a feeble community passing from barbarism
+to light and knowledge, but a mighty people whose aspirations after
+political influence, and whose excitements to foreign conquests,
+were among the most striking facts which accompanied their onward
+progress. Others, I thought, could not fail to trace the influence of
+their early literature upon their future destiny. It was my object to
+gather together the mementos which their poets strewed around them as
+they moved forward. I have continued my labours, and I believe, that
+while philosophy will find much matter for sober thought in these
+varied pages, the statesman will do well to study the tendency and the
+character of that fountain-head of popular feeling whose waters will
+spread over generations of men, and over the widest empire of the world.
+
+I have said that the intellectual state of a country cannot be judged
+of by its productions of literature or of art: and I suspect strange
+delusions exist in our minds with regard to the attainments of the mass
+of society in those countries which our classical associations hallow
+with every thing that is bright and beautiful. America has produced no
+Murillo, no Cervantes, no Calderon; yet who would hesitate to rank her
+people far above the unenlightened--the brave, the generous, though
+unenlightened--inhabitants of the European peninsula? The extreme
+depression of the many leads to the extraordinary elevation of the
+few, and poetry sits on the very pinnacle of civilization. It may rear
+itself like a pyramid, where all around is a waste. So, a land may be
+covered with verdure and cultivation, where no column is raised to
+commemorate the past--where no pile makes an appeal to the sympathies
+of the future--where the generations of men flourish and fade, ‘and
+the place that knew them knows them no more.’ The possession of every
+object of reasonable desire leaves little scope to the imagination,
+which is the child of hopes and fears. Such a land, however, must
+necessarily be the abode of freedom, for freedom alone can give that
+equality of rights whose influence produces universal happiness. A
+real equality of rights, and of security in their possession, will
+necessarily bring with them something like an equality of knowledge,
+at least of that knowledge which has the most direct influence upon
+human felicity. Well understood freedom is that which provides for the
+well-being of the great majority of mankind--it is that which leaves
+in every individual’s hand the greatest possible sum of political
+influence and power which is consistent with the interest of the whole.
+Despotism is that which provides for a small minority by the sacrifice
+of the mass of society; it is that which arms itself with the greatest
+possible sum of authority, and leaves no strength, and will communicate
+no intelligence to the people. A strong government--a government too
+strong to be influenced by the national will, and which makes no
+real appeal to that will, must necessarily be a bad government. That
+government is alone wise, and that government is alone legitimate,
+which requires and possesses the support of popular opinion, and which
+is too weak to oppose, and too honest to wish to oppose, that sanction
+by which it was created, and by which it may be destroyed.
+
+The history of time gone by will afford few facts to assist us in
+judging of the tendencies of those marvellous changes which are now
+going on in the intellectual world. Truth and knowledge shut up in a
+few individual minds, and enlightening only a narrow circle already
+half enlightened, had nothing to connect them with the great masses
+of society. They were torches which blazed in a chamber, leaving
+darkness behind them, till other torches were kindled. Now the light
+of instruction is unextinguished--is inextinguishable. It is not
+exclusive in its blessings, nor bounded in its journeyings. Its roots
+are planted among the poor. They are entering on their heritage,
+which cannot be taken from them. The treasure is confided to their
+keeping--to the keeping of the many and the strong.
+
+But though society is obviously tending to a state in which some
+of its existing gradations must necessarily be destroyed, in which
+the wider repartition of knowledge must inevitably lead to a more
+equal distribution of wealth, of political power and of consequent
+enjoyment, it must be borne in memory, that the influence of intellect
+is incredibly great, and that the master-minds of a nation give a
+deep impression to the national character. I have done violence to my
+feelings by translating many of the military and warlike productions
+of the Russian poets; but they will not be without their use. They
+will serve to show how the feelings of hatred and malevolence are
+excited; how that love of outrage which is called ‘martial spirit’
+creeps into the bosom of a people, and corrodes all the mild and all
+the generous virtues. They will show the arts by which the slumbering
+passions are aroused, and how terrible it is to arouse them. Nor will
+such compositions excite _our_ sympathy--they are directed against us
+as well as others. Our shame and sin are indeed heavier and older than
+theirs. Let us never forget, that he who hates another prompts another
+to hate him. We cannot keep all the malevolence and all the vengeance
+for ourselves; it will return upon us with renewed strength and
+redoubled ferocity. The wound may be inflicted for a momentary purpose,
+but we leave the weapon there to canker and fester for ever.
+
+On other grounds their introduction is almost indispensable. They are
+a necessary and an important part of the general picture. Among these
+compositions, that of Zhukovsky, ‘The Minstrel in the Russian Camp,’ is
+perhaps the most popular of modern poetical productions in Russia.
+
+So much for generalities, which I hope will not be thought misplaced.
+And if some regret be felt, that so many of the Russian poets have
+followed the example of us, ‘the more enlightened nations,’ in their
+admiration of heroes and conquerors, and in their laud of restless and
+ruthless ambition, some of them are entitled to a higher and a nobler
+praise--they have sung the gentler influences of truth, and knowledge,
+and virtue, the progress of civilization, and the spreading happiness
+of man.
+
+A remark has been made and repeated on the subject of the former
+volume: ‘These poets have little originality.’ Now something must be
+allowed for the extreme difficulty of preserving in translation all
+the characteristics of the author. Many phrases cannot be verbally
+rendered--many associations cannot be felt. To a Russian _red_ and
+_beautiful_ are synonymous; he uses the same word for both. How can the
+imagery of his mind be transferred to an English reader? Besides, too
+much is expected on the score of originality. Man is every where the
+same being, with the same feelings and affections, the same senses,
+and nearly the same desires: their modifications are but slightly
+varied by circumstances, and the great tablet of nature too has far
+less variety than we are wont to deem. Does a Russian see any thing
+brighter than the sun, or vaster than the ocean, or more beautiful
+than a cloudless night? Is any thing more venerable than his mountains,
+or more poetic than his streams? Such are _his_ elements of song--are
+they not also ours? The subjects of poetry too are less extensive
+while general literature is in its cradle, and their number is still
+more limited where the form of government prevents the mind from
+attaining its full expansion, and bars out some of the warmest and
+sublimest feelings--such as indignation against oppression--and others
+of the tenderest--such as sympathy with the oppressed. The intenser
+passions of the poet, unable to exercise themselves in the high range
+of patriotism, are spent in the songs of love and valour; while his
+calmer affections dwell among the daily business of society, recording
+the joy of the parent over the new-born infant, the rapture of the
+bridegroom, or the plaints that wail the dead. The poetry which is here
+presented is the poetry of a highly-imitative, strongly-feeling, but
+despotically-governed people, erected upon a magnificent, sonorous,
+and flexible language, blending something of the wildness of oriental
+character with the sternness and the sobriety of European precision.
+That the impress of our literature, and that of our neighbours, is to
+be most distinctly traced, is quite certain. Nearly half the poetry
+which Russia possesses is translation. Their leading authors have
+travelled, and have taken back with them the treasures they found: and
+they have done good service. The most obvious resemblance is to the
+German school: and to the honour of Germans be it said, that their
+influence on the civilization of Russia has been most extensive and
+most salutary. Their patient industry, their general intelligence,
+their social habits of life, have so interblended them with the Russian
+people, working a silent but an effective change, that the whole mass
+will become leavened with their long-suffering, their industrious, and
+intellectual virtues. The necessary result of an habitual intercourse
+with foreign nations--an intercourse established by Peter the Great,
+and most wisely encouraged by all his successors, was the introduction
+of models which placed the poets of Russia, as to form at least, on
+a level with the most cultivated people of the south. Their language
+easily lent itself to all the varieties of versification, and without
+the gradations of advancing improvement, they adopted a style of
+poetical composition which they have found no reason to modify or to
+change.
+
+On the whole, the present volume will possess a character much more
+decidedly national than the former. A variety of poems immediately
+connected with the earlier history of Russia, and others representing
+the peculiar habits of the Russians, are introduced. The national
+songs, especially, will, I trust, excite some attention. These are
+the poetry of the people. These are the fragments whose authors are
+never raised from the darkness of oblivion--these are the joy and
+the study of the peasantry, their consolation in the dreariness of
+their wintry dwellings, conveyed from tongue to tongue through many
+a generation. These are no subjects for criticism, for criticism
+cannot reach them--it cannot abstract one voice from the chorus, nor
+persuade the village youths and maidens that the measure is false, or
+the music is discordant. The forms of versification, though some of
+them are rude and irregular, I have endeavoured to preserve, as a part
+of their original charm. I have heard them sung in the wooden huts of
+the cottagers; and have been cheered by them when the boor has whirled
+me in his uncouth sledge over the frozen snow. The rude melody, often
+gentle and plaintive, in which they found utterance, still vibrates in
+my ear. I ask for them no admiration--they are the delight of millions.
+The fame of the Iliad is nothing to theirs!
+
+I had not seen the _Poetische Erzeugnisse_ of Karl Friedrich von der
+Borg, printed at Dorpat in 1819, when the former volume was published.
+I confess I was surprised at the almost verbal resemblance of some of
+his translations to my own. In this second volume I have been able
+to strengthen myself with his opinion as to the selection, and to
+avail myself of his most interesting Specimens for my assistance. His
+fidelity is admirable.
+
+This volume was written during my solitary confinement in the prison
+of Boulogne: it made days and hours swift and pleasurable, which might
+have been most long and wearisome. When my spirit reposed from that
+exciting indignation which seemed to exhaust its energies, it was among
+the poets of Sclavonia that it lingered. I shall recal this memorable
+epoch of my life with gratitude and pride--gratitude to that active
+sympathy which my situation awakened, and pride in the recollection,
+that in the darkest moment no dejection, far less despondency, had
+place in my mind. I could picture, and did picture every thing that
+injustice, cruelty, and violence, might assemble for my humiliation
+or my destruction. I communed with my conscience, and anticipated the
+worst with cheerfulness. Surely there is something in principles which
+cannot be shaken by the terrors of life, nor the fears of death.
+
+                                                               J. B.
+  _Boulogne Prison,
+    Oct. 25, 1822._
+
+
+
+
+TABLE OF CONTENTS.
+
+
+INTRODUCTION                             v
+
+Lomonossov                               1
+
+Derzhavin                               15
+
+Dmitriev                                23
+
+Zhukovsky                               57
+
+Karamsin                               117
+
+Dolgorukov                             133
+
+Batiushkov                             141
+
+Merslakov                              159
+
+Voeikov                                167
+
+Muraviev                               173
+
+Kapnist                                185
+
+Petrov                                 189
+
+Shatrov                                205
+
+Væsemsky                               213
+
+Milonov                                221
+
+Khovansky                              233
+
+National Songs                         237
+
+
+
+
+_RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY._
+
+
+
+
+LOMONOSSOV.
+
+
+ODE.
+
+FROM JOB.
+
+    O man! whose weakness dares rebel
+    Against the Almighty’s strength, draw nigh
+    And listen, for my tongue shall tell
+    His message from the clouded sky.
+    Midst rain, and storm, and hail, he spoke,
+    Around the piercing thunder broke;
+    At his proud word the clouds disperse,
+    And thus he shakes the universe:
+
+    ‘Come forth, then, in thy pride and power--
+    Come answer me, thou son of earth!
+    Where wert thou in that distant hour
+    When first I gave creation birth?
+    When all the mountain’s heights were rear’d,
+    When all the heavenly hosts appear’d,
+    My wisdom and my strength’s display?
+    Man! let thy towering wisdom say!
+
+    ‘Where wert thou when the stars, new born,
+    Sprung into light at my command,
+    And fill’d the bounds of eve and morn,
+    And sung the intelligence that plann’d
+    Their course sublime? When first the sun
+    On wings of glory had begun
+    His race, and oceans of pure light
+    Wafted mild Luna through the night.
+
+    ‘Who bid the ascending mountains rise?
+    Who fix’d the boundary of the sea?
+    Who, when the waves attack’d the skies,
+    Confined their furious revelry?
+    The caverns hid in darkness I
+    Unveil’d--my breath of majesty
+    Dispersed the gathering mists--my hand
+    Divided ocean from the land.
+
+    ‘Say, canst thou bid the morning dawn
+    At earlier hour than I have given,--
+    Or water the rain-thirsty lawn
+    When I have shut the gates of heaven?
+    Canst thou a favouring breeze prepare
+    To waft the anxious mariner;
+    Or guide this earthly ball--to crush
+    The vile--and the tumultuous hush?
+
+    ‘Say, hast thou scaled the mountain’s height,
+    Or sounded ocean’s vast abyss;
+    Or measured all that infinite
+    Immensity that o’er thee is?
+    Or couldst thou ever penetrate
+    Those clouds so dark, so desolate,
+    That round death’s midnight-portal dwell?
+    Or dive into the depth of hell?
+
+    ‘Couldst thou with tempests fill the cloud,
+    The glory of the sun to hide;
+    And in yon bright cerulean shroud
+    The lightning and the watery tide:
+    With swiftly-gathering fiery flash,
+    And with the mountain-shaking crash,
+    Tear earth’s foundations up, and show
+    What dust is thy poor world below?
+
+    ‘Tell me, thou scrutinizing mind,
+    Who leads the eagle’s flight sublime?
+    His pinions are the mighty wind,
+    His path beyond or earth or time;
+    Far o’er the sea, on some tall rock,
+    He looks upon the surge’s shock.
+    Who could his craving wants supply?
+    Who gave him that sun-dazzling eye?
+
+    ‘Look at the awful behemoth--
+    Read there, vain man! my power’s display:
+    Go! see him trample, in his wrath,
+    The thorny forests in his way.
+    His veins are hard as cables--try
+    With him thy arm of potency!
+    His ribs are brass--his giant horn
+    Puts all thy boastful strength to scorn.
+
+    ‘Go! hook the huge leviathan,
+    And draw him subject to the shore;
+    The ocean is his kingdom--man!
+    His course, the boundless waters o’er:
+    The scales upon his sides are bright
+    As silver shields in Luna’s light:
+    He sees, in mockery, frowning lord!
+    Thy threatening spear and sharpen’d sword.
+
+    ‘A millstone is his heart--his row
+    Of teeth like sickles, threat’ning still:
+    Who shall attack him--hero! who?
+    He waits the strife with ready will.
+    He basks him in the sunny beam
+    On the sharp rock--’tis smooth to him--
+    His strong impenetrable mass
+    Sleeps as it were on sand or grass.
+
+    ‘When he prepares him for the fray,
+    The ocean like a furnace gleams;
+    The thundering surges mark his way,
+    His anger like a caldron steams;
+    His eyes with burning fury roll,
+    As in a forge the scarlet coal.
+    All fly before him--“Who shall stand
+    Before my frown, when I command?”
+
+    ‘When my high will creation’s plan
+    And self-supported wisdom drew,
+    Did I consult thee, feeble man!
+    To tell me what my hand should do?
+    Why didst thou not my purpose check,
+    Thou who wert then an atom speck,
+    And say, when I was framing thee,
+    “Why art thou thus creating me?”’
+
+    Insolent mortal!--bow thy head:
+    God’s wisdom and God’s goodness trace;
+    In the safe path He marks thee--tread--
+    ’Tis He who fix’d thy earthly place;
+    And joy and grief alike are given
+    To lead thee on thy way to heaven:
+    Then hope and bear--in patience bear--
+    And throw on Him thy woe, thy care.
+
+
+MORNING MEDITATIONS.
+
+    O’er the wide earth yon torch of heavenly light
+    Its splendour spreads, and God’s proud works unveils;
+    My soul, enraptured at the marvellous sight,
+    Unwonted peace, and joy, and wonder feels,
+    And with uplifted thoughts of ecstasy
+    Exclaims, ‘How great must their Creator be!’
+
+    O, if a mortal’s power could stretch so high--
+    If mortal sight could reach that glorious sun,
+    And look undazzled at its majesty,
+    ’Twould seem a fiery ocean burning on
+    From time’s first birth, whose ever-flaming ray
+    Could ne’er extinguish’d be by time’s decay.
+
+    There waves of fire ’gainst waves of fire are dashing,
+    And know no bounds; there hurricanes of flame,
+    As if in everlasting combat flashing,
+    Roar with a fury which no time can tame:
+    There molten mountains boil like ocean-waves,
+    And rain in burning streams the welkin laves.
+
+    But in Thy presence all is but a spark,
+    A little spark: that wond’rous orb was lighted
+    By Thy own hand, the dreary and the dark
+    Pathway of man to cheer--of man benighted;
+    To guide the march of seasons in their way,
+    And place us in a paradise of day.
+
+    Dull night her sceptre sways o’er plains and hills,
+    O’er the dark forest and the foaming sea;
+    Thy wond’rous energy all nature fills,
+    And leads our thoughts, and leads our hopes to Thee.
+    How great is God! a million tongues repeat,
+    And million tongues re-echo, ‘God, how great!’
+
+    But now again the day-star bursts the gloom,
+    Scattering its sunshine o’er the opening sky;
+    Thy eye, that pierces even through the tomb,
+    Has chased the clouds, has bid the vapours fly;
+    And smiles of light, descending from above,
+    Bathe all the universe with joy and love.
+
+
+EVENING MEDITATIONS,
+
+ON SEEING THE AURORA BOREALIS.[1]
+
+    The day retires, the mists of night are spread
+    Slowly o’er nature, darkening as they rise;
+    The gloomy clouds are gathering round our head,
+    And twilight’s latest glimmering gently dies:
+    The stars awake in heaven’s abyss of blue;
+    Say, who can count them?--who can sound it?--who?
+
+    Even as a sand in the majestic sea,
+    A diamond-atom on a hill of snow,
+    A spark amidst a Hecla’s majesty,
+    An unseen mote where maddened whirlwinds blow,
+    Am I midst scenes like these--the mighty thought
+    O’erwhelms me--I am nought, or less than nought.
+
+    And science tells me that each twinkling star,
+    That smiles above us, is a peopled sphere,
+    Or central sun, diffusing light afar;
+    A link of nature’s chain:--and there, even there
+    The Godhead shines display’d--in love and light,
+    Creating wisdom--all-directing might.
+
+    Where are thy secret laws, O nature! where?
+    In wintry realms thy dazzling torches blaze,
+    And from thy icebergs streams of glory there
+    Are pour’d, while other suns their splendent race
+    In glory run: from frozen seas what ray
+    Of brightness?--from yon realms of night what day?
+
+    Philosopher, whose penetrating eye
+    Reads nature’s deepest secrets, open now
+    This all-inexplicable mystery:
+    Why do earth’s darkest, coldest regions glow
+    With lights like these?--O tell us, knowing one,
+    For thou dost count the stars, and weigh the sun.
+
+    Whence are these varied lamps all lighted round?
+    Whence all the horizon’s glowing fire?--the heaven
+    Is splendent as with lightning--but no sound
+    Of thunder--all as calm as gentlest even;
+    And winter’s midnight is as bright, as gay,
+    As the fair noontide of a summer’s day.
+
+    What stores of fire are these, what magazine,
+    Whence God from grossest darkness light supplies?
+    What wond’rous fabric which the mountains screen,
+    Whose bursting flames above those mountains rise;
+    Where rattling winds disturb the mighty ocean,
+    And the proud waves roll with eternal motion?
+
+    Vain is the inquiry--all is darkness--doubt:
+    This earth is one vast mystery to man.
+    First find the secrets of this planet out,
+    Then other planets, other systems scan;
+    Nature is veil’d from thee, presuming clod!
+    And what canst thou conceive of Nature’s God?
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] This Ode was given in the first volume, but as it ought to
+accompany the poem which precedes it, it is now published in another
+form.
+
+
+
+
+DERZHAVIN.
+
+
+TO A NEIGHBOUR.
+
+    For whom these festal luxuries
+    On Neva’s foaming banks--for whom?
+    ‘Neath intertwining, shadowing trees,
+    Where all is flowers, and fruits, and bloom;
+    Gay Persian tents emboss’d in gold,
+    And China vases manifold;
+    And sparkling glass from Austria sent;--
+    For whom--for what? O why abuse
+    Fortune? Why dissipate and lose
+    Gifts, which at best are only lent?
+
+    The song is heard--the chorus blends
+    Its louder tones;--’neath pines up-piled
+    And fruits, the wearied table bends;
+    And sweets--O silly, spendthrift child!
+    The senses are all feasted:--Maids
+    Pour forth the grape-juice--see, it spreads--
+    The world contributes: ancient Rhine,
+    Champagne, and Xeres, mingling come;
+    And British streams, and streams from home,
+    And Selzerswave and Moselle wine.
+
+    In a cool grot, whose fountains flow
+    Round alabaster piles and busts,
+    Stretch’d on a bed where roses grow,
+    The slave of thy unholy lusts,
+    Thou liest: a maiden, bright and fair,
+    And young, reposes near thee there--
+    A nymph with laughter in her eye:--
+    She sings--thou sinkest on her breast,
+    And, strangely wilder’d, thou hast prest
+    Her hand, in ecstasy of joy.
+
+    Thou sleepest--and thy dreams foretel
+    An everlasting heaven of bliss:
+    Its flowery buds around thee swell
+    With blossoms bright and blest as this.
+    Thou hast thy treasures, hast thy fields;
+    For thee Siberia’s bosom yields
+    Of countless wealth a rich display:
+    Thee, a proud stream of silver meets:--
+    O blessed! whom the morrow greets
+    As happy as the yesterday.
+
+    O blessed! in life’s vale below,
+    Who sees unmoved this shifting scene--
+    Who, though the mighty storm-winds blow,
+    But hears their rage, and is serene.
+    The thunder-clouds may o’er him roar,
+    The waves may spring the mountains o’er,
+    Scattering the sand and foam--’tis nought
+    To him--the torn and scatter’d wood
+    May leave a desert solitude--
+    He sits in calm and quiet thought.
+
+    Ours are but foolish wishes--change,
+    Change is the meteor we pursue:
+    When nought is wanting, then we range
+    And gasp, and grasp at something new.
+    The time of sorrow comes--thy maid
+    Betrays thee as she has betray’d
+    Other admirers--then the song--
+    Ay! all this noisy song will cease,
+    And thou be left to think in peace--
+    In sadness----Sorrow’s day is long.
+
+    Look! even now her eyes are darting
+    Less beams of love, of revelry.
+    Hark! from yon gathering clouds is starting
+    A fearful storm--thy ship’s at sea.--
+    No! no!--while all seems fair and bright,
+    O dream not thou of sorrow’s night!
+    Feast, neighbour, feast--and dance and sing--
+    Life’s sun has but a summer’s glow,
+    And joy is innocent--but know,
+    ’Tis but that joy which bears no sting.
+
+
+THE SHIPWRECK.
+
+    The silver moon the clouds looks through,
+      Her beams upon the waters float;
+    And midst the gathering mist and dew
+      The mariner has launch’d his boat.
+
+    And in that moonlight’s placid ray
+      His course across the deep he takes;
+    The welcoming port before him lay,
+      And in his bosom joy awakes.
+
+    But oh! he dashes on a rock--
+      His voice is choked--his eye is dim;
+    A moment struggling ’gainst the shock,
+      And then--the waves o’er-mantle him.
+
+    ’Tis but life’s picture--for the tomb
+      Drags all things to its desolate cell:
+    Hope is a flower of morning’s bloom--
+      And love and friendship----fare ye well!
+
+
+FRAGMENT.
+
+    The ass that looks upon the stars
+    Is not less asinine;--the base
+    And cowardly that boasts of scars,
+    Or wears a crown, may take the place
+    Of generous spirits, in the throng
+    Where usurpation reigns; for men
+    Confound the worthy with the strong,
+    Nor weigh pretension’s clamor vain.
+
+    The hollowest vessels sound the loudest,
+    The richest treasures deepest lie;
+    Yet piled up wealth, and rank the proudest,
+    Are but tumultuous vanity.
+    I am a prince--with princely spirit,
+    A ruler--if I rule my heart;
+    A titled heir--if I inherit
+    Of virtue, wisdom, truth, a part.
+
+
+
+
+DMITRIEV.
+
+
+JERMAK.
+
+    What vision, history, bring’st thou now
+    To flit before my wandering eye?
+    In the dark night, amidst the glow
+    Of the pale moon, that tremblingly
+    Shines, Irtish takes its wilder’d way:
+    It whirls--it wanders--and its spray
+    Is scatter’d o’er the rugged shore.
+    Two men are there--pale--bent beneath,
+    Like shadows from the realm of death.
+    Their brows are hung their bosoms o’er:
+    One young--a beard, by age made white,
+    Reach’d to the other’s waist--they wear
+    A simple ornament--affright
+    And terror seem attendants there.
+    Round their steel helmets many a bird
+    Flapping its ominous wing is heard,
+    And spectres rustle in the air:
+    Their vestments from the wild beasts’ lair
+    Were brought--their breasts in flint are wrapt,
+    And with the rime and hoar-frost capt;
+    A broad knife at their girt was hung;
+    Beneath them two tympanas lay,
+    And broken, worm-worn lances: they--
+    They were Siberian Shamana[1].
+    I listen’d there--and thus they sung:
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+    Yes! Irtish, rage--thy murmuring roar
+    Echoes our griefs--the storm that lowers
+    Is meet--for all our sunshine’s o’er--
+    Ah, woe is ours!
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+                        Ah! woe is ours,
+    And fearful is time’s threatening frown!
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+    Thou whose proud crown, in days of old,
+    Three different nations[2] shelter’d--known
+    To history--and by fame enroll’d,
+    Mother of many lands, and land
+    Of hoary-headed glory--thou--
+    Even thou, Siberia--thou must bow,
+    Smitten by desolation’s hand.
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+    Thy people are all scatter’d now--
+    Scatter’d as the whirlwind drives the sand;
+    Thy Kutshum[3] is departed too--
+    Dead--distant from his father-land.
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+    Thy Shamana are swept away
+    Whose fear, whose fame had fill’d the world.
+    Is it for this my hair is gray,
+    That century-aged warriors hurl’d
+    Into the dust--even from their tomb
+    Call--loudly call on others--Come,
+    And rouse again Shaitana’s[4] day?
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+    Ye Gods! where was your conqueror then?
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+    O miserable, mournful doom!
+    That handful of Muscovia’s men!--
+    O had the blasting lightning riven--
+    Deluge--or plague--the shame, the stain
+    Might have been borne--but Jermak!--Heaven!
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+    O curse him now, Siberia’s hills!
+    Streams, vales, on him your curses be!
+    Night--starless night--Siberia fills--
+    The desolating demon he!
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+    He came--a torch of fury lighted--
+    A frost, that all creation blighted!
+    Where’er he went his ravaging breath
+    Brought, like the withering pestilence, death!
+    And death ruled o’er our land benighted.
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+    The brother of the king he slew.
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+    With Mehmet Kul[5], Siberia’s pride,
+    I saw him struggle--and there flew
+    The whistling barbs on every side.
+    Kul from its sheathe the sabre drew,
+    And thus in generous rage he cried:
+    ‘O mock not, death!--an unstain’d name
+    With chains--with infamy--or shame!’
+    Then rush’d he fiercely on the foe.
+    O fearful sight!--their sabres flash--
+    Their eyes are fire--and blow to blow
+    Is echoed in the horrid clash:--
+    Both swords are shiver’d--and they stand
+    Unarm’d, with upraised close-clench’d hand.
+    ’Tis man to man, and breast to breast:
+    The forest glades the shock repeat,
+    And the earth shakes beneath their feet,
+    And their blood flows like rain--the best,
+    The bravest blood: their big hearts burst--
+    Their knees give way--their sinews crack--
+    Their flanks are broken--heat, and thirst,
+    And weariness:--’tis now the first--
+    ’Tis now the second faints--th’ attack
+    Kindles again:--who wins?--Jermāk.
+    ‘Mine art thou now--from this proud hour
+    All, all is conquer’d--all is won.’
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+    Our thread of destiny is spun!
+    The victor’s desolating power
+    Has crush’d Siberia--but her sighs--
+    Her heavy groans----
+
+    OLD MAN.
+
+                          Will ever rise.
+    But hear, my son!--At eventide,
+    In this dark solitude I trod,
+    And brought my offering to our God;
+    While sad devotion’s thoughts came o’er me,
+    A howling north wind by my side
+    Rush’d, scattering the riven leaves before me;
+    The hundred-winter oak trees mutter’d
+    Terrible sounds--the wild goat fled,
+    Affrighted, from his wonted bed;--
+    I fell:--some godlike voice thus utter’d:
+    ‘Racha[6] no suppliant prayer shall hear
+    When spreading his avenging token.
+    Siberia! thou his laws hast broken--
+    Take thy reward--his curses bear:--
+    Thou the white monarch’s[7] slave shalt be,
+    And every day-break, every eve,
+    Shall fetter’d find thee--fetter’d leave;
+    And Jermak’s fame, and Jermak’s race,
+    Find an eternal resting-place,
+    Long as the moon its course shall keep.’
+    ’Twas silence--and from heaven’s high doors
+    A thrice-repeated thunder roars,
+    Lost--lost in darkness drear and deep.
+    Oh! woe is ours----
+
+    YOUNG MAN.
+
+                        O woe is ours!
+
+    Then sighing--trembling--then they rose
+    From the cold rock where lichen grows;
+    They raise their war-arms from the sand,
+    And wandering slowly ’long the strand,
+    The mist conceals them from my eye.
+
+    Thy dust, Jermāk, sleeps still and calm,
+    But Russia shall erect on high
+    Thy pyramid, and shall embalm
+    Thy name with flowers and poetry:
+    A pile of gold, which thy good spear
+    Won from Siberia, shall she rear!
+    What said I, thoughtless one!--what dream
+    Has passion in its sleep created?
+    Where is his fane?--the dust of him
+    Is lost--his grave unconsecrated,
+    Unknown:--_that_ dust the wild-boars tread;
+    The savage Ostyaks there chase,
+    With their wing’d barbs, the timid race
+    Of fawns o’er the vast desert spread.
+    But be consoled, thou heir of fame!
+    The genius of the lyre is come
+    To sing her matins o’er thy tomb;
+    And many an angel guards thy name
+    While seated on thy ruins:--verse
+    Shall thus her sweetest strains rehearse;
+
+    ‘Great One! who in the hoary time
+    Wast born--and victory led thee on--
+    Death stopp’d thee in thy course sublime,
+    And now thy very dust is gone.
+    Though thy forefathers sought their food
+    In the rude plain and wilder’d wood;
+    Though savage wolves escorted thee,
+    And fame ne’er spread thy feats abroad,
+    Yet still thy glory’s majesty
+    Endures--and thou art half a God.
+    From age to age--above decay,
+    Till lasting night time’s day shall close;
+    Till the proud heavens shall pass away,
+    And Time upon his scythe repose[8].’
+
+
+MOSKVA RESCUED.
+
+    Receive the minstrel wanderer
+    Within thy glades, thou shadowy wood!
+    No idle tone of joy be here;
+    Nor let even Venus’ song intrude!
+    Fair Moskva’s smile my vision fills--
+    Her fields, her waters,--towering high,
+    And, seated on her throne of hills,
+    A glorious pile of days gone by.
+
+    O Moskva, many a nation’s mother,
+    How bright thy glances beam on me!
+    Where, like to thee--where stands another--
+    Where, Russia’s daughter, like to thee!
+    As pearls thy thousand crowns appear,
+    Thy hands a diamond sceptre hold;
+    Thy domes, thy steeples bright and clear,
+    Like sunny rays on eastern gold.
+    The treasures of the orient meet
+    Those of the west: through every street
+    A stream of wealth and luxury flows.
+    Thy sons are natural heirs of fame,
+    Courage and glory shrine their name;
+    Thy daughters--lovely as the rose.
+
+    But war has spread its terrors o’er thee,
+    And thou wert once in ashes laid;
+    Thy throne seem’d tottering then before thee,
+    Thy sceptre feeble as thy blade.
+    Sarmatian fraud and force, o’er-raging
+    The humbled world, have reach’d thy gate;
+    Thy faith with flattering smiles engaging,
+    Now threatening daggers on thee wait--
+    And they were drawn--thy temples sank--
+    Thy virgins led with fetter clank--
+    Thy sons’ blood streaming to the skies--
+    ‘Spirit of vengeance! now arise.
+    Save me, thou guardian angel!--save!’
+    So criedst thou in thy agony.
+    Thy streets are silent as the grave--
+    The unsheath’d sword--it hangs o’er thee.
+
+    And where is Russia’s saviour--where?--
+    Stand up--arouse thee--in thy might!
+    Moskva alarm’d--surrounded there
+    And clouded, as a winter’s night.
+    Look!--she awakes--she knows no fear,
+    And young and old, and prince and slave;--
+    Their daggers flash like boreal light;
+    They crowd--they crowd them to the fight.
+    But who is that with snowy hair--
+    The first--that stern old man--the tide
+    Of heroes he leads onward there!
+    Pozharsky--Russia’s strength and pride!
+    What transport tunes my lyre!--my lays
+    Seem glowing with celestial fire:
+    O! I will sing that old man’s praise;
+    Shout loudly now, thou heavenly choir!
+    I hear--I hear the armour’s sound:
+    The dust-clouds round the pillars rise--
+    See! Russia’s children gather round.
+
+    Pozharsky o’er the city flies,
+    And from death’s stillness he awakes
+    The very life of valour.--Lo!
+    Midst the star’s light, and sunny glow,
+    He forms the firm courageous row.
+    Here--there: hope, joy, again appear:
+    The burghers gather round him there,
+    And range them for the combat now.
+
+    ‘And why this crowd?’ a warrior calls
+    From a high pinnacle[9]--he saw--
+    His senses whelm’d in fear and awe--
+    He fled from Kremlin’s royal walls.
+    ‘Sarmatians! to your swords!’ he said;
+    ‘Delay not, for we are betray’d:
+    ‘I saw the gathering enemy
+    ‘Stretch’d like a waking snake along:
+    ‘They gain the city rapidly--
+    ‘The fields are cover’d with the throng.’
+    ’Tis bustle all--’tis all dismay;
+    What crowds of soldiers fill each street!
+    Round walls and gates their cohorts meet,
+    And like a whirlwind urge their way
+    To where Sclavonian thunders roar!
+
+    And see! how bright the heaven is glowing!--
+    What smoke--what flame--what blood is flowing!
+    Sword echoes sword the wide plain o’er;
+    Whole ranks are harvested that stood
+    Like the firm oak trees of the wood:
+    The bullets o’er the field are flying--
+    Here sleep the dead, there shriek the dying:
+    There, staggering ’neath a lance’s wound,
+    A wild-horse madly stamps the ground,
+    Flies--falls--and covers, as he dies,
+    The turf on which his rider lies:
+    Still the storm struggles in the air,
+    And agony is every where.
+
+    Death is the conqueror!--death--despair!
+    They rule o’er village, field, and grove:
+    A wounded maiden tears her hair,
+    A hoary sire just looks above,
+    Then to the ground--and sleeps serenely.
+    Come, moralist! and study here:
+    See that poor orphan, suffering keenly,--
+    His star is sunk; the starting tear
+    That falls for those whose blood was spilt--
+    For others’ interests, others’ guilt,
+    Trembles upon his cheeks; the fate
+    Of war hath left him friendless--best
+    Were it for him to join the rest,
+    Nor live thus drear and desolate.
+
+    And thrice the day hath seen the strife,
+    And thrice hath dawn’d Aurora blithe;
+    The battle-demon sports with life,
+    Death waves untired his murderous scythe.
+    Pozharsky’s thunder still is heard;
+    He speeds him like the eagle-bird
+    Following his prey--destroying--crushing,--
+    Then on the Poles with fury rushing,
+    He scatters them like flying sands,--
+    That giant of the hundred hands.
+    On! On!--What transports of delight!
+    ‘Hurrah! Pozharsky wins the fight!’
+    The city joins the ecstasy--
+    ‘O yes! our Moskva now is free!’
+
+    O memorable morning’s ray!
+    O ne’er to be forgotten day,
+    What painter’s pencil shall portray thee,
+    And in thy natural joy array thee,
+    And tell each bosom’s rapture then!
+    Millions in wild delight!--they crowd
+    Upon the bulwarks, shouting loud:--
+    The very roofs are made of men.
+    What flower-wreathes o’er the streets they flung,
+    What triumph-songs the churches sung;
+    How high, how bright the banners hung,
+    And palms crown’d every citizen!
+
+    Where is the hero?--where is he
+    Who led our sons to victory?
+    List to that cry of eloquence--
+    ‘What--what shall be his recompense?’
+    Look!--He who made the invaders bleed,
+    And Moskva and his country freed,
+    He--modest as courageous--he
+    Takes the bright garland from his brow,
+    And to a youth he bends him now--
+    He bends his old and hero-knee.
+    ‘Thou art of royal blood,’ he said,
+    ‘Thy father is in foemen’s hand;
+    ‘Wear thou that garland on thy head,
+    ‘And bless, O bless our father-land!’
+
+    Valiant old hero! Russia’s pride,
+    And Russia’s love,--I bless thee now.
+    By the gigantic mountain’s side
+    May everlasting waters flow;
+    May marshes turn to groves and woods;
+    Out of our wastes may gardens grow;
+    And in our barren solitudes
+    May cities flourish--and decay:
+    While generations pass away,
+    And brighter lights disperse their ray;
+    Yet thou shalt be the poet’s charm,
+    And thou shalt be the warrior’s glory,
+    Through never-ending time to warm
+    The bosom with thy patriot story.
+
+
+TO THE VOLGA.
+
+    Now furl your sails--and heaven be blest!
+    For we have reach’d the promised land:
+    And, Volga, thou whose wavy breast
+    Has brought us to this smiling strand--
+    Volga!--the king of waters--named
+    The great, the proud, the glorious--famed
+    In history--now farewell! ’Twas thou
+    Who listenedst to the poet’s song
+    Ere mingled with earth’s busy throng:
+    To thee his Muse was wont to bow.
+
+    And all my hopes have now been crown’d,
+    And every joy has been fulfill’d,
+    Which, when my childish thoughts look’d round,
+    Some fond aspiring dream instill’d.
+    When towards thy banks I stretch’d my eye,
+    Peopled thy shores with industry,
+    Spread on thy waves the silver sail!--
+    The dream is realised--I view
+    The picture which my fancy drew--
+    Vision of promised brightness--hail!
+
+    I held sweet converse with thy winds,
+    I heard thy waves, thy tempests roar;
+    I read each threatening cloud that binds
+    The soul in fear, and shakes the shore.
+    As from a tower I look’d, the height
+    Of granite mountains dimm’d my sight;
+    And lost, and wondering as I view’d,
+    I ask’d--Who saw the days of yore?
+    Proud cities rise her borders o’er,
+    Where ’twas a desert’s solitude!
+
+    Here, meadows, villages, and herds,
+    And smiling cottages are placed;
+    There, flowers and furze, and savage birds,
+    Are the sole tenants of the waste,
+    And nought seems wanting to my sight.
+    I hear--I hear the gay delight
+    Of dancing nymphs midst yonder trees;
+    They fill the air with melody,
+    While, from his gloomy cavity,
+    The savage boar their revelling sees.
+
+    The sailor, as he skims thy wave,
+    Gathers the listening crew around,
+    And pointing to a crumbling grave,
+    Says, ‘Rasin there his dwelling found.’
+    But pensive silence checks his tongue,
+    The damp sweat on his brow is hung,
+    His finger trembles, frozen by cold;
+    For o’er his thoughts there rush a throng
+    Of the wild images which song
+    Hath gather’d from the mists of old.
+
+    Yes! midst the ruins time hath pil’d,
+    There strides upon thy waves the wan
+    And awful form of John the Wild,
+    The terrible of Astrachan.
+    I see his hordes, in rude affright,
+    Raining, from yonder vineyard’s height,
+    Their arrow streams upon the Russ--
+    The Russ--who hurries to the fray
+    And conquers--see those hordes obey,
+    And, trembling, yield their land to _us_.
+
+    I heard the Caspian oracle
+    Speak in a voice of thunder--‘See!
+    ‘Persians! your fate how terrible:
+    ‘He comes--the lord of victory!
+    ‘A thousand bolts his hand sends forth,
+    ‘He rules the south, he guides the north,
+    ‘The crescent and the lion flee!
+    ‘Hark! for he comes--their future king
+    ‘The subject waves of Volga bring,
+    ‘Derbent! thy lord of victory.’
+
+    So spake the sea-god--and his tears
+    Fell from his watery eyes like rain;
+    The waves roll’d round the man of years,
+    He plunged him in the waves again.
+    But, Volga, brighter triumphs thou
+    Wreath’st in thy glory-garland now,
+    And fairer palms of victory wave;
+    The Caspian trembles at thy feet,
+    The Sound, the Belt, thy trophies greet,
+    And all the ocean is thy slave.
+
+    And shalt thou not be sung, bright river?
+    And like thy blessings be thy praise;
+    Shall music’s voice be dead for ever,
+    Nor to thy fame one anthem raise?
+    O would the god of song inspire,
+    Ganges ne’er heard so loud a lyre
+    As I would tune, sweet stream, for thee!
+    Euphrates and old father Nile,
+    Before thy glory should be vile,
+    And earth resound thy majesty!
+
+
+ENJOYMENT.
+
+_Naslazhdenie._
+
+    Let each his wayward will pursue,
+    I envy not the laurel bough:--
+    I’ll have the myrtle drench’d in dew,
+    Which thou hast smiled on--maiden, thou!
+
+    I’ve seen the hero seek the fray,
+    I’ve seen the sage illume the world;
+    What then? They sparkled through their day,
+    And were to death’s oblivion hurl’d!
+
+    And whether roses o’er them bloom’d,
+    Or nettle weeds oppress’d the ground;
+    They were in silence’ breast entomb’d,
+    Nor heeded all that pass’d around.
+
+    Then grief begone--and welcome joy!
+    And three times welcome, love’s sweet bliss!
+    For as our days like arrows fly,
+    How precious every moment is!
+
+    Perchance e’en now the mandate’s given
+    To call the hurrying pilgrim home;
+    Perchance the azure arch of heaven
+    Now hears the summons--‘Mortal--come!’
+
+    O tarry not, fair maiden! give
+    Thy hours to rapture, and be blest!
+    And live, since time is fleeting, live
+    While pleasure’s life-blood warms thy breast.
+
+
+_Akh! kogda ja prezhde snala!_
+
+    O had I but known before
+    What a misery love might be!
+    Had that bright star, shining o’er,
+    Ne’er employ’d its witchery--
+    O had I refused to bear
+    This his ring, that magic spell--
+    Never sought the window where
+    He was smiling--it were well!
+
+    When the light of passion shone,
+    Well I might have pass’d it by;
+    Let the wax-wing’d child fly on
+    Tow’rds some maid less blest than I:
+    Wherefore did I seek the grove
+    Where the swain was wandering then--
+    Met him with a look of love--
+    Left him--and return’d again?
+
+    Ah! that heart, that was so gay,
+    Sinks ’neath sorrow’s heavy load:
+    Wretched one--I turn’d away:--
+    Fix’d me in the public road--
+    Wept and wail’d--Art thou unmoved,
+    Passing traveller?--pity me!
+    He was faithless that I loved:--
+    Set me from love’s misery free!
+
+
+_Stonet sisĭi golubochik._
+
+    Once a gentle turtle dove
+    Night and day dishearten’d mourn’d;
+    He was widow’d of his love,
+    She had fled, but not return’d.
+
+    He, whose wooing voice was heard
+    Constant as the break of day,
+    Pined, and droop’d--the faithful bird
+    Still, and sad, and silent lay.
+
+    While his thoughtless partner flew
+    Here and there--with all she sported:
+    All she wish’d to know, or knew,
+    Greeted, trifled with, or courted.
+
+    Oft he look’d, but look’d in vain,
+    He so faithful, fond, and true;
+    Slowly pined he ’neath his pain,
+    Strength departed, sorrow grew.
+
+    See, his head is ’neath his wing:
+    Coldness o’er his bosom creeps--
+    Ah! poor solitary thing!
+    All is still--the turtle sleeps.
+
+    Then the giddy, gadding dove,
+    Fluttering gaily, thither hies,
+    Takes her station by her love--
+    ‘Husband! wake thee now,’ she cries.
+
+    With her wings she fans the dead,
+    Bitterest thoughts begin to flow:--
+    Chloe! tell me, hast thou read?
+    I’m a widow’d turtle too.
+
+
+TO CHLOE.
+
+    Of all flowers the fairest
+      Is the rose to me;
+    I had deem’d it dearest
+      For its constancy.
+
+    Every day completer
+      Seem’d it to my view,
+    And its breath was sweeter,
+      Brighter was its hue.
+
+    Trust not Fortune’s blossom,
+      For my rose I found
+    On the mountain’s bosom
+      Choked with absinth round.
+
+    Yet it had not perish’d;
+      Still in smiles it shone--
+    ’Twas the rose I cherish’d,
+      But--its breath was gone.
+
+    Chloe! I bethink me
+      What a rose thou art!
+    Foolish one! to link me
+      To a woman’s heart.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] The principal inhabitants and warriors of Siberia.
+
+[2] The Tartar, the Ostyak, and the Bogulich nations.
+
+[3] Kutshum lost his kingdom, and delivered himself up to the Calmucks,
+by whom he was afterwards slain.
+
+[4] The idols of Siberia.
+
+[5] Mehmet-Kul was the king’s brother, whom Jermak made prisoner and
+sent to the Tzar Ivan Vassilievich. The noble family of Sibinsky have
+their origin from him.
+
+[6] Racha was the Jupiter of the Ostyaks. Kutshum, who was bred in the
+Mahommedan faith, whether by argument or by force, caused the adoption
+of the Koran through a great part of Siberia.
+
+[7] The Russian Tzar.
+
+[8] The crown of Kutshum is still preserved in the museum at Moskow,
+among the imperial insignia. The events referred to in the above poem
+occurred in the year 1580. Ataman Jermak was sent by Ivan Vassilievich
+against Kutshum, and drove him from his capital, called Siberia (whence
+the name of the country): it was situated near Tobolsk.--See Karamsin’s
+History of Russia.
+
+[9] The French also employed the steeples of Moskva as watch-houses or
+observatories.
+
+
+
+
+ZHUKOVSKY.
+
+
+THE MINSTREL IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP[1].
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Now silence wraps the battle field!
+      The tents with lights are gleaming;
+    And lo! the bright moon’s silver shield
+      In the calm heaven is beaming.
+    Fill, fill the glass of rapture, yet,
+      In unity full-hearted;
+    In wine the bloody strife forget,
+      The grief for the departed!
+    The glasses’ ruby stream to drain
+      Is glory’s pride and pleasure--
+    Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
+      Thou art the hero’s treasure.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    O yes!--the ruby stream to drain
+      Is glory’s pride and pleasure--
+    Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
+      Thou art the hero’s treasure.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Now to the warriors of old time,
+      The strong in fight and glory!
+    These warriors and their deeds sublime
+      Are lost in distant story!
+    The grave hath gather’d up their dust,
+      Their homes,--the storm hath razed them;
+    Their helmets are devour’d by rust,
+      And silent those who praised them:
+    But in their children live their fires,
+      We tread the land that bore them,
+    And see the shadows of our sires
+      With all their triumphs o’er them.
+    O come! in all your brightness come,
+      And smile complacent, near us;
+    Look from your high and misty home,
+      Encourage us and hear us.
+
+    O Svatoslav! time’s injured son,
+      Thy path an eagle’s flying:
+    ‘There is no shame in dying--On![2]
+      There is no shame in dying!’
+    And Donskoi, thou[3]! courageous man,
+      Midst heathen foes we find thee;
+    Destruction leading on thy van,
+      And nought but death behind thee.
+
+    Thou, Peter! thou, the hero’s crown,
+      ‘Poltava!’ is repeated:
+    Thy foes have thrown their sabres down,
+      Thee, all the world has greeted.
+    What! Robbers, would ye build your throne
+      Upon our cities’ ruin?
+    Thy horse and rider fell--begone!
+      For vengeance is pursuing.
+    Go hide thee in thy native woods,
+      There thy ambition smother;
+    Fate drives thee to their solitudes,
+      Yes! thou, the rebel’s[4] brother.
+
+    Who is that white-hair’d hero, who
+      That northern more than Roman?
+    His penetrating glance looks through
+      The phalanx of the foeman:
+    From yonder clouds what shadowy rows
+      Are tow’rds his footsteps turning?
+    The spirits of the Alpine snows
+      Are wailing loud and mourning.
+    Franks and Sarmatians, at his view,
+      Death’s icy paleness borrow;
+    Well they may fear him--well may rue--
+      It is the great Suvorov!
+
+    Hail! sons of ages long gone by!
+      Your glories are recorded;
+    We follow you to victory,
+      Like you to be rewarded.
+    We see your ranks--they lead us on--
+      The foe retreats before us;
+    We scatter death, as ye have done,
+      While ye are smiling o’er us.
+    Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate
+      We look to our Creator!
+    ‘And death for death, and hate for hate,
+      And curses on the traitor.’
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Draw swords, fill glasses, then, elate,
+      Look to our great Creator!
+    ‘And death for death, and hate for hate,
+      And curses on the traitor.’
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    This glass then to our country’s joys,
+      Ne’er may our hearts feel colder;
+    The scenes of mirth while we were boys,
+      Of love, when we grew older!
+    Our country’s plains, our country’s sky,
+      The streams that flow beneath it;
+    The memories of infancy,
+      And all the thoughts that wreath it
+    With joyous hopes and visions blest--
+      Dear shrine of our affection,
+    How glows our heart, how beats our breast,
+      When beams the recollection.
+    That is our country, there our home,
+      There wife and babes attend us;
+    And oft their prayers towards us roam,
+      And oft to Heaven commend us!
+    There dwell our plighted, chosen ones;
+      How bright their memory flashes!
+    Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones,
+      And there our fathers’ ashes.
+    For them we fight, for them we rove,
+      For them have all forsaken;
+    And may our land’s undying love
+      In our sons’ breasts awaken!
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    For them we fight, for them we rove,
+      For them have all forsaken;
+    And may our country’s fadeless love
+      In our sons’ breasts awaken!
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Now to the Tzar that rules the Russ,
+      And be his sceptre glorious;
+    His throne an altar is to us--
+      We swear to be victorious.
+    The oath is heard--’tis stamp’d in blood--
+      ’Tis sworn--there’s no returning;
+    Our swords shall make our promise good,
+      Our hearts with love are burning.
+    Each Russ a son of victory,
+      To duty’s ranks we throng us;
+    Let every craven coward fly,
+      For fear was ne’er among us.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Each Russ a son of victory,
+      To duty’s ranks we throng us;
+    Let every craven coward fly,
+      For fear was ne’er among us.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Now to the chiefs that lead us on,
+      The captains that we cherish;
+    In life, in death, conjoin’d as one,
+      And heaven for those who perish:
+    That heaven where all, all holy is,
+      All love, and peace, and union,
+    And courage, dignity, and bliss,
+      In undisturb’d communion.
+    This stormy world we look beyond,
+      To that serene though far-land;
+    Here danger is our common bond,
+      And glory is our garland.
+
+    There sit the wreath-crown’d chiefs who led
+      Our fathers long before us;
+    Their shield of strength shall guard our head,
+      Their voices thunder o’er us:
+    On us their wakening smiles descend,
+      Their frowns our foes pursuing;
+    Yes! through their ranks what terrors blend,
+      And threaten them with ruin!
+    But they shall lead our warriors through,
+      Amidst the battle’s raging;
+    Death quits his terrors in our view,
+      When with the foe engaging.
+
+    Hail! martial hero! chief in fight[5],
+      Thou with the ringlets hoary,
+    Who, like an eagle, takest thy flight
+      Midst storm and thunder’s glory.
+    His furrow’d, weather-beaten brow
+      Attracts the inquiry curious;
+    How cold and calm before the foe,
+      But in his rage how furious!
+    O wonder! from heaven’s halls there flew
+      A glorious eagle o’er him[6];
+    He bow’d his head--what shouts! they knew
+      That victory was before him.
+
+    Fly to our fathers! eagle fly,
+      And tell them we are speeding
+    To fame, to glorious victory,
+      Our hoary chieftain leading.
+    He, strong in council, cool in fray,
+      In every purpose steady;
+    Well known to him is triumph’s way,
+      His wisdom ever ready.
+    Were Moskva’s glories razed in vain,
+      Our country’s trophies riven?
+    No! Russia stands erect again,
+      For we are here--and heaven!
+
+    Hail! hail, ye martial leaders all!
+      Jermolov, valiant Roman!
+    Friend of the brave, and valour’s wall,
+      And terror of the foeman.
+    Rajevsky, thou the chief ador’d!
+      Amidst the strife we found thee
+    Baring thy bosom to the sword,
+      With thy young sons around thee.
+    Hail! Milorádovich! to thee;
+      The field of battle’s thunder:
+    Thou tearest, in thy ecstasy,
+      The tyrant’s chains asunder.
+
+    And thou who saved’st Petropolis,
+      Thou, Vittgenstein! brave leader!
+    Shield of thy country, and her bliss,
+      Thou dread of her invader!
+    With darkness was his vision fill’d,
+      When first the traitor saw thee;
+    Alone, but leaning on thy shield,
+      Numbering his ranks below thee.
+    Then fear came o’er that traitor’s mind,
+      His courage left him shatter’d;
+    Thy sword was drawn--and, like the wind,
+      His trembling ranks were scatter’d.
+
+    Hail! Konovnizin! thou our joy!
+      From danger absent never:
+    Where bullets whiz, and arrows fly,
+      There have we found thee ever.
+    Before--behind--around him--we
+      Saw terror, death, and danger:
+    He stood, in his serenity,
+      To all alarm a stranger.
+    Himself forgotten--see him bear
+      Down on those ranks of slavery;
+    And valour’s self stood wond’ring there--
+      He was the god of bravery.
+
+    And thou, Platov! thou storm of fight,
+      Thou Ataman the Lion!
+    Thy busy lance--thy sling of might,
+      Scathe--scatter all they fly on.
+    A wild wolf broken from his lair--
+      An eagle on stretch’d pinion:--
+    Death whispering in the foeman’s ear,
+      Throughout thy wide dominion.
+    Amidst the woods his torches fly--
+      How spreads the conflagration!
+    Bridges oppose--in dust they lie--
+      Towns--all is desolation!
+
+    Hail! Nestor Benningsen, to thee!
+      Nought can thy mind inveigle;
+    Hero and sage--to enemy
+      A serpent and an eagle.
+    And hail! Woronzov! young and gay,
+      Though ripen’d by discretion.
+    And Tormassov! in battles gray,
+      The flying foe’s oppression.
+    And Baggovuth[7], with heart of mail,
+      Waving his sabre o’er ye.
+    Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail!
+      Our country’s pride and glory!
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail!
+      Our country’s pride and glory!
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Now, brothers! hallow those who died,
+      Those from the strife departed;
+    Their place is vacant by our side,
+      Before us they have started.
+    No more shall they disperse the foe,
+      Or hear the battle’s thunder;
+    Their hearts no more with rapture glow--
+      They sleep in silence under.
+    Their sword, their shield, are on the ground,
+      Where damp and rust shall eat them;
+    Their proud war-horses wander round,
+      Without a friend to greet them.
+
+    O Kulinev! the brave, the strong!
+      Upon thy shield reclining,
+    Thou diedst amidst the battle throng,
+      While thy bright sword was shining.
+    Thou diedst e’en where thy childhood pass’d[8]
+      In happiest visions o’er thee;
+    And thou hast made thy grave at last
+      Where first thy cradle bore thee:
+    And sure thy latest sigh was blest,
+      For faith’s best hopes thou keepedst;
+    That last sigh sought thy mother’s breast--
+      Reach’d heaven--and then thou sleepedst.
+
+    And where, Kutaissov![9] tell us where
+      Thou in thy bloom alightest?
+    His heart, his countenance were clear
+      As virtue when ’tis brightest;
+    He threw him in the battle ring--
+      Death dropt its mantle o’er him:
+    He touch’d the sweet harp’s sweetest string;
+      Let every string deplore him!
+    His steed approaches, dyed with gore--
+      Where is the hand to guide her?
+    His shield is there, blood-clotted o’er--
+      The shield--but not the rider.
+
+    Where are thy ashes, in what vale,
+      What unknown cavern hidden?
+    For they are sought o’er hill and dale
+      By a heart-broken maiden.
+    There lovelier shines the morning dew,
+      The sun is brighter glowing;
+    The breezes they are gentler too,
+      More fair the flowrets blowing!
+    And angel forms at midnight come,
+      When mortal eyes are sleeping;
+    Their silent watch around thy tomb
+      In mild devotion keeping.
+
+    And thou, Bagration![10] tears were shed,
+      And prayers for thee ascended:--
+    ’Twas all in vain, for thou art dead--
+      Thy hero-race is ended.
+    From rank to rank our warriors sigh’d,
+      ‘God’s mercy shall restore him!’
+    And oft our foes, despairing, cried,
+      ‘We yet shall fly before him!’
+    Nay! nay! that noble soul is gone,
+      That generous heart is riven;
+    To join Suvorov, he is flown;--
+      To all the brave in heaven.
+
+    Shades of our heroes! ye are blest,
+      Ye roam in Eden’s gardens,
+    Where time’s departed chieftains rest,
+      And angels are the wardens.
+    Your memory still has left its blaze,
+      Its holy beamings reach us;
+    A light which flows to distant days,
+      How brave men died to teach us.
+    Your names still mount above your graves,
+      Your glories we inherit;
+    And every unfurl’d flag that waves
+      Is pregnant with your spirit.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Your names still soar above your graves,
+      Your glories we inherit;
+    And every unfurl’d flag that waves
+      Is pregnant with your spirit.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    One glass to vengeance! In the fray
+      ‘Heaven for the right!’ our voices,
+    And ‘death or victory!’ proudly say;
+      And victory’s self rejoices.
+    O count not on your numbers, foe!
+      In vain ye boast your numbers;
+    Our march is like the torrent’s flow,
+      Which never, never slumbers.
+    We have no treasures, but we bring
+      Our arrows and our lances,
+    And round us desolation fling--
+      And death is in our glances.
+
+    The Robber! he had spread his power
+      Around our Moskva’s borders;
+    And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower
+      He issued forth his orders.
+    ‘I trample on the base-born clay,
+      ‘Which folly’s pride assembles,
+    ‘And prince and subject both obey.’
+      Insulting one!--he trembles.
+    For vengeance wakes her from her rest,
+      And arms her with her torches;
+    Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast,
+      And drives him from our porches.
+
+    Now bring thy slavish princes, now,
+      To our ice-girded nation;
+    And lead them o’er our paths of snow
+      To horror and starvation.
+    Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed,
+      And close our country’s portals--
+    O see! he strews the land with dead,
+      With piles of frozen mortals.
+    Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
+      Come, for the strife prepare thee!
+    The land we fight on is our own--
+      God’s vengeance, wretch! is near thee.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
+      Come, for the strife prepare thee!
+    The land we fight on is our own--
+      And God’s revenge is near thee!
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    One glass to friendship’s glory lend,
+      That makes all sorrows lighter--
+    O happy he who owns a friend!
+      Heaven has no blessing brighter.
+    Our joys to swell, our griefs to share,
+      While by life’s storms we’re driven,
+    Our conscience to direct us here,
+      Our friendly staff for heaven.
+    O be _the sacred bond_[11] our guide,
+      Our law, and our allegiance!
+    ’Tis by our life-blood sanctified,
+      And we have sworn obedience.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    O be _the sacred bond_ our guide,
+      Our law, and our allegiance!
+    ’Tis by our life-blood sanctified,
+      And we have sworn obedience.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    And _this_ to Love!--and break it too--
+      Its flame shines ever purely!
+    For love’s sweet smile, and glory’s glow,
+      They are twin-sisters surely.
+    For he whom Heaven has train’d and taught,
+      By love’s soft step attended,
+    Whose thought still meets another’s thought,
+      While heart with heart is blended--
+    He is the hero--doubt or fear
+      Ne’er enter in his bosom--
+    For doth he not the garland wear
+      Of which love wreathed the blossom?
+
+    O love! thou art our morning star;
+      How oft our steps thou meetest!
+    Thy gay light glances, bright and far--
+      Thy songs of all are sweetest:
+    Thy breath oft waves our banners high,
+      And to the fight thou guidest;
+    Thou smilest on our victory,
+      And o’er our dreams presidest.
+    Look, foeman! on our battle shield,
+      Our hearts’ love was the giver;
+    ’Twas she who wrote upon its field,
+      ‘Thine--even in death--for ever!’
+
+    Fond dreams, which fancy clads in all
+      The beauties love can borrow!
+    She sits behind yon garden wall
+      Communing with her sorrow.
+    Her plaints, her prayers, to heaven ascend,
+      To thee her thoughts are flying--
+    Now tears, now smiles, embalm her friend,
+      ‘Ah! perhaps my friend is dying!
+    When shall I hear his accents--when
+      Will fly these days so dreary?
+    O dawn, sweet morn of joy, again,
+      For I am well nigh weary.’
+
+    O friends! it is a pride to die
+      For those whose faith is plighted;
+    Their love is ever hovering nigh,
+      And we may die delighted.
+    Their name upon our lips shall hang,
+      While the death-wound is burning;--
+    And it shall soothe the parting pang,
+      While to earth’s bosom turning.
+    The memory of the maid we love
+      Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten,
+    And seek with us the world above,
+      Its mansions to enlighten.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    The memory of the maid we love
+      Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten--
+    We’ll bear it to the world above,
+      Its mansions to enlighten.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Now to the Muse the red-grape press--
+      The Muse, whose voice of thunder
+    Gives courage, energy, success,
+      And tears fear’s chains asunder:--
+    The arrows fly--and young and old
+      With shield and sabre arm them--
+    Midst the death-shower they throw them bold,
+      For nothing can alarm them.
+    The minstrel’s song has touch’d their soul,
+      And valour’s tears are breaking,
+    While hoary age bursts time’s control,
+      And youthful strength is waking.
+
+    Pride of the elder time, Bojan![12]
+      Whose harp, though lost to story,
+    Led on the brave Sclavonian
+      With hymns of praise and glory!
+    Thy songs prophetic did proclaim
+      Peter the Great, the glorious:
+    Petrov sang Saidunaisky’s name:
+      Derzhavin’s lyre victorious
+    Its tones of joy and music flung,
+      Forest of Kama, o’er thee:
+    Suvorov, thee Derzhavin sung,
+      Hero of poet worthy.
+
+    Old man! O could we hear again
+      Thy swan-like tones to bless us!
+    Thou sangst not idle glory’s strain,
+      But vengeance to redress us.
+    And not for conquest, not for fame,
+      Thy lyre of passion pleaded--
+    ’Twas struggling for an unstain’d name,
+      Revenge for rights invaded.
+    Sing, swan! thy song the chain will break
+      Which many a land surrounded;
+    And Slavery’s threatenings wax them weak
+      Where thy proud notes are sounded.
+
+    O honour then the Muses’ sons!
+      And I--though mean and lowly:--
+    Would that my lyre’s awaken’d tones
+      Were all inspired and holy!
+    In the deep valley’s loneliness
+      That humble lyre was shrouded:
+    I heard a voice, ‘To battle press!’
+      And to the combat crowded.
+    Farewell, then, music--joy, farewell!
+      I sped me to the battle:
+    My song--the trumpets’ piercing swell;
+      My choir--the cannons’ rattle.
+
+    Yet will I sing the Robber’s fall,
+      And your bright deeds, elated;
+    For even now some whizzing ball
+      Perchance with death is fated.
+    But could my dying hour disperse
+      The dreams I loved to cherish?
+    And crush the spirit of my verse
+      With my faint name to perish?
+    The robber to his fame hath built
+      A pile of bloodstain’d iron;
+    And there your glory and his guilt
+      Time’s records shall environ.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Then welcome be the sons of song,
+      Who bid our victories blossom;
+    And as our fathers pass along
+      With triumph fills their bosom.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    Your glasses:--To the God of Might,
+      Bend on your knees before him:
+    He led you to the glorious fight,
+      And saved you--now adore him!
+    The shield of virtue is his rod,
+      He saves the poor and lowly;
+    The rock of ages is our God--
+      He scathes the proud one’s folly.
+    Look to the glorious realms above,
+      Where not a tear e’er started;
+    And hear from thence that voice of love,
+      ‘My children! be strong hearted!’
+
+    O immortality! thou sea
+      Of silence--peaceful portal!
+    How happy who is launch’d on thee,
+      And straight becomes immortal!
+    O happy they who fall in fight!
+      For those they leave behind them
+    Seek through a long and gloomy night
+      The grave that might have shrined them.
+    The son of battle breaks the bond
+      Which to the vain world ties him;
+    Soars to a brighter world beyond,
+      Where misery never tries him.
+
+    But we?--O let us trust in God,
+      Whate’er our portion given,
+    To lead us through life’s darksome road
+      To happiness and heaven:
+    Obedient to his holy will,
+      Scattering all sin before us;
+    And gently moving forward still,
+      Till darkness gathers o’er us.
+    If low our lot--a courage free;
+      If high--no scornful blindness;
+    In strength and power--simplicity;
+      And universal kindness.
+
+    Ready obedience where ’tis due--
+      Our oaths--a sacred token!
+    To love unshaken, fervent, true,
+      And friendship’s pledge--unbroken.
+    To those who sink--a ready hand,
+      And comfort to the mourning;
+    For tyrants--valour to withstand,
+      For treachery--hate and scorning.
+    The blaze of truth to shame a lie;
+      All honest faith--befriended;
+    And in death’s fight--calm bravery,
+      And peace--when all is ended.
+
+    O God of might! be thou our shield,
+      Our squadrons lead and rally!
+    Rider and horse to thee must yield,
+      And perish in the valley.
+    O God! in our behalf appear--
+      Our foemen’s ranks be broken;
+    Come, day of vengeance, dark and drear!
+      And lo! the Lord has spoken.
+    I saw him numerous as the sand
+      Spread over hills and plains there;
+    He waved his bright and murderous brand,
+      And now--no trace remains there.
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    I saw him numerous as the sand
+      Spread over hills and plains there;
+    He waved his bright and murderous brand,
+      And now--no trace remains there.
+
+    MINSTREL.
+
+    But look! the clouds are brightening now,
+      The daylight is appearing;
+    See! o’er the distant mountain’s brow
+      The morning star uprearing.
+    The twilight breaks--the vapours damp
+      The hills are now surrounding;
+    And lo! the slumber-girded camp,
+      And morning-music sounding.
+    But soon--but soon--as hours return,
+      That band so calmly sleeping,
+    Shall fate--her hand is on the urn--
+      Shall fate prepare for weeping!
+
+    O dawn thee not--let darkness try
+      Thy waking beams to smother!
+    For ah! to-day shall many an eye
+      Mourn o’er a perish’d brother.
+    Vain prayer--along the mountain’s height
+      I hear the thunder roaring;
+    Shouts from the plain announce the fight,
+      The sun tow’rds heaven is soaring:
+    The war-steeds rage and foam--anon
+      The shock of arms engaging--
+    The chieftain leads his soldiers on,
+      And hearts with fire are raging.
+
+    This is no time for wine nor song!
+      Come, to the battle hurry!
+    With naked sabre join the song,
+      For death or triumph’s glory!
+    Yes! ye who love us far away,
+      Farewell! and if for ever,
+    Preserve the memory of the day,
+      And O forget us never!
+    Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove--
+      Beloved, one sacred greeting:
+    Here--tender and undying love,
+      There--an eternal meeting!
+
+    WARRIORS.
+
+    Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove--
+      Beloved, one sacred greeting:
+    Here--tender and undying love,
+      There--an eternal meeting!
+
+
+CATHERINE[13].
+
+_SVÆTLANA._
+
+    St. Silvester’s evening hour
+      Calls the maidens round:
+    Shoes to throw behind the door,
+      Delve the snowy ground.
+    Peep behind the window there,
+      Burning wax to pour;
+    And the corn for chanticleer
+      Reckon three times o’er.
+    In the water-fountain fling
+    Solemnly the golden ring,
+      Earrings too of gold;
+    Kerchief white must cover them
+    While we are chanting over them
+      Magic songs of old.
+
+    Feebly through the vapours shine
+      Moonbeams on the hill;
+    Silently sat Catherine,
+      Sorrowful and still.
+    ‘Maiden, why so pensive? we
+      Fain thy voice would hear--
+    Come and join our revelry!
+      Take the ring, thou dear!
+    Sing ‘Make haste and melt, and bring,
+    ‘Goldsmith! come with golden ring,
+      ‘Golden wreath for Kate!
+    ‘Ring to deck her hand of snow,
+    ‘Wreath to bloom upon her brow
+      ‘At the altar-gate.’
+
+    I can sing no choral song
+      While my love’s away;
+    For my days are sad and long,
+      Gloomier every day.
+    Left alone--a year is past--
+      Not a line to send--
+    O my life is but a waste,
+      Sever’d from my friend!
+    Hast thou then forgotten me?
+    Tell me, wanderer! can it be?
+      Where’s thy dwelling--where?
+    See, I pine ’neath secret smart:
+    Guardian angel! watch my heart--
+      Listen to my prayer!
+
+    Cover’d with a napkin white,
+      Stood a table there;
+    Where a mirror, clear and bright,
+      Shone amidst the glare.
+    Vacant seats for two were placed--
+      ‘Look within, O look!
+    ’Tis the hour of spirits--haste!
+      Read Fate’s opening book:
+    To the mirror turn thy eye,
+    And the door shall silently
+      Open--List! ’tis he!
+    Gently shall thy lover glide,
+    Seat him by his maiden’s side,
+      And shall sup with thee.’
+
+    Cath’rine sat before the glass--
+      All alone was she,
+    Watching all the shades that pass,
+      Shuddering inwardly.
+    But the glass is dark and drear,
+      Still as death the room;
+    Scarce a fading taper there
+      Flitted midst the gloom.
+    O how fear her bosom shook!
+    Backwards then she dared not look!
+      Dread had dimm’d her sight:
+    And the dying tapers’ noise,
+    And the cricket’s chirping voice,
+      Cried--’tis middle-night!
+
+    Breathless terror chill’d her o’er,
+      And she shades her brow:--
+    List! a knock is at the door,
+      And it opens now:
+    To the mirror then she turn’d,
+      Stupefied with fear;
+    Their two brilliant eyeballs burn’d,
+      Ever bent on her.
+    Horror heaved her breast, when lo!
+    Gentle accents, sweet and slow,
+      Glided on her ear:
+    ‘All thy wishes are fulfill’d--
+    All thy spirit’s sighs be still’d--
+      ’Tis thy lover, dear!’
+
+    Cath’rine look’d--her lover’s arms
+      Were around her thrown:
+    ‘Maiden! banish all alarms,
+      We are ever one!
+    Come! the priest is waiting now,
+      Life with life to blend;
+    Torches in the chapel glow,
+      Bridal songs ascend.’
+    Cath’rine smiled--her lover led--
+    O’er the snow-clad court they sped,
+      And the portals gain;
+    There a ready sledge they found--
+    Two fleet coursers stamp the ground,
+      Struggling with the rein.
+
+    Onwards! like the winds they go,
+      When the storm awakes;
+    Scattering round them clouds of snow,
+      While the pathway shakes.
+    All was dark and wild as night,
+      Terrible, and new:
+    Mist-wreaths dimm’d the pale moon’s light,
+      Plains were drench’d in dew.
+    Fear again possess’d the maid,
+    And in gentlest tones she said,
+      ‘Speak--my lover true!’
+    He was silent then--but soon
+    Turn’d him to the wintry moon,--
+      Pale and paler grew.
+
+    Through the snow--a mountain’s height--
+      Next the wild steeds pass’d;
+    And a church appear’d in sight,
+      ’Midst a gloomy waste:
+    Then a whirlwind burst the door--
+      Men are there who mourn;
+    Clouds of incense rolling o’er,
+      Waxen tapers burn.
+    Lo! a black sepulchral shroud--
+    ‘Dust to dust!’ the priest aloud
+      Chants--the horses flew
+    Tow’rds the door--her agony
+    Rose--he spoke no word--but he
+      Pale and paler grew.
+
+    Clouds of snow ascend again--
+      Lo! the coursers fly;
+    And a raven on the plain
+      Croaks, and passes by;
+    ’Twas an awful, ominous sound!
+      And the moonlight wanes;
+    Darkness wraps the desert round
+      O’er the steaming manes.
+    See! a glimmering light is there,
+    And upon the heather bare
+      Stands a humble shed.
+    Swifter--swifter flew the car,
+    Whirl’d the snow around it far,
+      But no farther sped.
+
+    At the door they stopp’d anon,
+      There--a moment stood:--
+    Steeds--sledge--bridegroom--all are gone:
+      All is solitude.
+    Catherine on the waste was left,
+      Midst dense clouds of snow;
+    Of her lover now bereft,
+      To commune with woe:
+    But she hears a footstep now,
+    Turns, and sees a taper glow;
+      Crosses her, and stalks
+    Trembling to the door--and knocks:--
+    Of itself the door unlocks--
+      In the maiden walks.
+
+    There, upon a winding sheet,
+      Lay a mortal bier;
+    Christ’s bright image at its feet
+      Shone resplendent there.
+    Whither--whither art thou come,
+      Maiden, all unblest?
+    Thou hast sought a wretched home,
+      Art a hapless guest!
+    Catherine to the image flies,
+    Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes,
+      Bends her down and weeps;
+    Presses to her breast the cross--
+    Thoughts of heaven her soul engross,
+      And she silence keeps.
+
+    All is still!--The storm is hush’d,
+      Faint the tapers beam,
+    Light across the chamber rush’d--
+      Momentary gleam:--
+    All is wrapt in silence deep
+      As when visions come.
+    List! what gentle rustlings sweep
+      Through the hallow’d room:
+    Lo! a dove of silvery white,
+    Soft and still, with eyes of light,
+      Tow’rds the mourner springs:
+    For a moment hovers there,
+    Then upon her bosom fair
+      Flaps his beauteous wings.
+
+    Silence reign’d again.--Can all,
+      All illusion be?
+    Lo! the corpse beneath the pall
+      Shudders fearfully:
+    Bursts the mantling bier of death,
+      Throws his shroudings by:
+    On his brow he wore a wreath,
+      Frozen was his eye:
+    From his lips a murmur breaks,
+    With his hand a sign he makes,
+      Pointing to the maid:
+    Trembling she--she dared not move--
+    But the bright and silver dove
+      On her bosom play’d.
+
+    Fann’d her with its gentle wing:--
+      To the dead man’s breast
+    Then she saw her sweet dove spring--
+      There it seem’d to rest.
+    Heaved that icy corpse a sigh,
+      As in dark despair,
+    Gnash’d his teeth in agony,
+      Turn’d his eyes on her.
+    Paler wax’d those lips so pale;
+    And the fix’d eye told the tale
+      That life’s film was broke.
+    Catherine! lift thy drooping head!
+    All is o’er--thy lover’s dead!--
+      God!----and she awoke.
+
+    Where?--within the self-same room
+      Where the mirror stood:--
+    Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom
+      With its golden flood;
+    Chanticleer had flapp’d his wings,
+      Sung his early song:
+    All is bright--the matin rings--
+      O thy dream was long!
+    Long indeed, and dreadful too;
+    And my spirit long shall rue
+      The dread prophecy!
+    Tell me, Future’s misty night,
+    Shall my fate be dark or bright,
+      Bliss or misery?
+
+    Catherine in the window sat,
+      Sorrowful and still:
+    Tell me--tell me what is _that_?
+      Mist-cloud on the hill?
+    In the sunbeams shines the snow;
+      Leaps the frozen dew:
+    List! I hear the bells below,
+      And the horses too.
+    Lo! they come--the sledge is near--
+    Now the Isvoshchik’s voice I hear--
+      They have pass’d the grove:--
+    Fling the gates wide open--fling--
+    Who’s the guest the coursers bring?
+      Who?--’Tis thou, my love!
+
+    Catherine, tell me now! _The dream_--
+      Is the dream forgot?
+    Youths may faithful be--who seem
+      Faithless--may they not?
+    When the light of love hath lent
+      Brightness to his eye;
+    When his lips are eloquent;--
+      Timid maid! reply!
+    Open now the temple-gate,
+    Spring on wings of joy elate,
+      Truth, we honour thee!
+    Pour the glass, and join the hymn,
+    Ne’er may days of darkness dim
+      Youth’s fidelity.
+
+    Thou dost smile, sweet maid! but deem,
+      Deem it worth a thought;
+    For that memorable dream
+      Stores of wisdom brought.
+    Thou dost smile again--but know,
+      It had lessons holy:
+    Fame, it told thee, was but--show;
+      Worldly wisdom--folly.
+    This my song was meant to say,
+    Hope and trust, should guide our way--
+      Maid! there’s no mistaking:
+    This the genuine moral seems,
+    Miseries--are only dreams,
+      Joy--is the awaking.
+
+    O my Cath’rine! never dwell
+      On that dream of gloom;
+    Heaven! build up her citadel,
+      There may grief ne’er come;
+    Not a cloud her joys o’ershade,
+      Not a joy decay;
+    Holy is that gentle maid
+      As the light of day.
+    Ne’er be it obscur’d by woe,
+    Let her days of comfort flow
+      Like a forest river;
+    And let joy, with smiles serene,
+    Be as it hath ever been,
+      Her bright guide for ever.
+
+
+THEON AND ÆSCHINES.
+
+    To his country’s penates wends Æschines home,
+      To the mist-cover’d land of Alpheus;
+    He long had sought happiness o’er the wide world,
+      But happiness fled--like a shadow.
+
+    And Bacchus and Venus, and pleasure and fame,
+      His heart had consumed--not contented;
+    The blossom of life had decay’d like his soul,
+      And hope had been banish’d by sadness.
+
+    The stream of the wavy Alpheus appears,
+      Alpheus, with flower-bedeck’d borders,
+    And wakes all the thoughts of the days hurried by,
+      And of youth-tide, for ever departed!
+
+    All the banks are as fair, all the fields are as bright,
+      And the sky smiles delighted above him;
+    But where is that hope which shed o’er them a ray,
+      A ray of ineffable beauty?
+
+    The dwelling of Theon now Æschines seeks;--
+      He dwelt in a peace-girded cottage;
+    His wishes all bounded, and moderate his hopes--
+      He dwelt on the shores of Alpheus.
+
+    ’Twas just where Alpheus springs into the sea,
+      With olive trees deck’d and plantanas,
+    That Æschines saw a humble abode--
+      It was the mean dwelling of Theon.
+
+    In the hot arch of Heaven the day-tide declined,
+      The calm stream of waters was glowing;
+    A rosy smile play’d round the humble abode,
+      Where the myrtles of fragrance were blooming.
+
+    A white grave of marble, with myrtle-wreaths hung,
+      Appears on a gentle mound rising;
+    Where roses of fragrance, and jasmin’s pale flowers,
+      Their branches entwined, interblended.
+
+    Theon sat near his hut;--he was lost in deep thought,
+      While he look’d on the purple-tinged billow;
+    Then suddenly turn’d on his Æschines--saw,
+      And remember’d his youthful companion.
+
+    ‘To Zeus--Preserver! be honour and praise!
+      Again dost thou see thy penates!’
+    Cried Theon--while rapture shone bright in his eye,
+      As he Æschines press’d to his bosom.
+
+    And with glances look’d through him again and again,
+      His visage was troubled and gloomy:
+    And Æschines mournfully gazed on his friend,
+      His gaze it was calm, but was mournful.
+
+    ‘O Theon! when first I abandon’d thee here,
+      Hope painted me visions of pleasure;
+    Far different my fate from my dreams--I have found
+      That hope is a faithless deceiver.
+
+    ‘And tell me, my Theon, has such been thy fate,
+      For such doth thy visage betoken?
+    Have sorrow and sadness intruded on thee,
+      And thy peaceful, domestic penates?’
+
+    Theon groan’d in his spirit, and look’d to the grave,
+      ‘These, these are the silent recorders,
+    If God lent us life to be wasted in joy--
+      Ah! life is the sister of sorrow.
+
+    ‘O no! I complain not of Zeus’ decrees,
+      For life and the world beam with beauty;
+    But bliss that is fleeting, and dreams that are vain,
+      I chase not for earthly enjoyment.
+
+    ‘What time can create, and what time can destroy,
+      Why call we our own;--it was never;--
+    ’Tis the soul’s own possession, the spirit of love,
+      The thoughts that sublimely transport us.
+
+    ‘These, these are true bliss!--Friend, this is no dream,
+      I, Æschines! loved and was happy;
+    ’Twas love that refined and enraptured my soul--
+      And that taught me the pleasure of living.
+
+    ‘Midst twilight sublimest conceptions appear’d,
+      Creation I saw in its glory,
+    And felt that my pilgrimage led through the world
+      To something far brighter above it.
+
+    ‘Woe is me! for I loved--she is gone--she is gone--
+      And the bliss is for ever departed,
+    That dawn’d with such lustre--how vainly it dawn’d!
+      How gaily--how swiftly it faded!
+
+    ‘O no! nought erases the track of the past,
+      In the heart it for ever endureth.
+    The sorrow of parting!--That, that too is love!--
+      And the heart loses nought of its treasure.
+
+    ‘And is not the pang which e’en death leaves behind
+      A germ which hope, bright and eternal,
+    Awakes; while the known, but the mist-cover’d land,
+      Gives back all we loved to our mem’ry.
+
+    ‘For he who has loved, and loved truly, my friend!
+      Can never, can never be lonely;
+    The world when _she_ blossom’d, with _her_ is still fill’d,
+      Ever present, unchang’d and immortal.
+
+    ‘Alone I tread onward the path of my doom,
+      To its boundary sublime ever tending;
+    She led me--she leads me--together we toil,
+      ’Tis the bond which not death could dissever.
+
+    ‘Thoughts pure and sublime throw a charm over life!
+      And with ecstasy oft I look round me
+    On the fair face of earth, that is smiling with good,
+      On the wonderful, glorious creation.
+
+    ‘And peaceful I turn from the markstone of death
+      To the visions which hail me immortal;
+    And hope lights with glory the dulness of earth,
+      As Aurora the canopied heaven.
+
+    ‘’Tis hope that exalts me far, far above fate,
+      And hallows this earthly existence;
+    And the thought, the proud thought I am _man_, swells my breast
+      With gratitude, triumph, and glory.
+
+    ‘This silent, this mystical gravestone, to me,
+      My friend! is a pledge and a token,
+    That the being which faith has depictured shall dawn
+      As sure as the past is departed.
+
+    ‘This grave is the door--the lock’d door of delight--
+      Will it open?--I hope, and expect it:
+    On _that_ side the pris’ner is waiting, who here
+      For a moment was seen--and departed.
+
+    ‘O friend! thou pursuest a false, fleeting good,
+      Thou snatchest the joy of a moment,
+    Thou losest the bliss that is sure and sublime,
+      And a life that is priceless despisest.
+
+    ‘This feeling of gloom, it benightens the earth--
+      Give your hand!--In the bosom of friendship
+    Let the world, and let nature be lovely again,
+      For, believe me, the earth is most lovely.
+
+    ‘When life was conferr’d, _all_, _all_ was conferr’d--
+      ’Tis the path, ’tis the promise of greatness;
+    And sorrow and joy, they are means to that end--
+      Praise Zeus--O praise the Creator!’
+
+
+THE BARD.
+
+    Through the dark wood seest thou that thorn-crown’d heap,
+    That o’er the lingering rivulet seems to rest;
+    Where the still stream glides by, as if in sleep,
+    And scarce a leaf is by the zephyr prest:
+        There hangs a harp--a garland, see!
+        That heap--it is a minstrel’s bed:
+        There are his ashes scattered--
+            Bard! woe is thee!
+
+    His soul was lovely--infant purity
+    Dwelt in his heart--a fleeting pilgrim, driven
+    By life’s first gales o’er seas of misery,
+    Sighing and longing for death’s silent haven--
+        That haven reach’d he speedily:
+        He sleeps death’s sleep--so dark, so dull--
+        His life was short, but sorrowful--
+            Bard! woe is thee!
+
+    He sang the song of friendship loud and sweet--
+    But ah! the friend is gone;--his holy strain
+    Breathed of pure love--’twas sad, though exquisite,
+    For he knew nought of love but love’s deep pain!
+        All slumbers now--all--silently,
+        Young bard! with thee--thy music’s breath
+        Is still--still’d by the frown of death:--
+            Bard! woe is thee!
+
+    Here, by this shrine, when the tir’d sun was setting
+    In melancholy brightness, thus he pour’d
+    His farewell hymn, ‘Fair world! thy charms forgetting,
+    ‘I leave thee, and for ever!--I adored
+        ‘A wild dream’s shade--an ecstasy!
+        ‘’Tis past!--Thou lyre! be still--my hand
+        ‘Is chill’d--I seek a brighter land:--
+            ‘Bard! woe is thee!
+
+    ‘That wild dream fled--what else is left?--the sky
+    ‘O’erclouded--the storm raging--an abyss
+    ‘Yawning around--hopes that just smile, and fly
+    ‘To darkness--solid woes, and shadowy bliss.
+        ‘Haven of peace! for me, for me
+        ‘Prepare thy welcome, grave, whose road,
+        ‘Though misty, leads to joy’s abode!
+            ‘Bard! woe is thee!’
+
+    Yes! he is fled--that magic harp is still,
+    His footstep-traces now are worn away;
+    And sorrow dwells on stream, and vale, and hill--
+    And silence, save when thoughtless zephyrs play
+        With the dried wreath that carelessly
+        Hangs--or in twilight’s feeble ray
+        Some spirit bids the harp-strings say,
+            Bard! woe is thee!
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] Zhukovsky accompanied the Russian army from Moscow. He wrote this
+piece just before the battle on the Tarutina.
+
+[2] These words are attributed by the old Russian historians to the
+great Duke Svatoslav Sgorevich, and are said to have led to one of his
+most brilliant victories over the Greeks. “Let us not shame our Russian
+land--Let our bones lie here--There is no disgrace in dying!”
+
+[3] Dmitrij Ivanovich (of the Don), the saviour of his country from
+Tartarian slavery. Ever since the unfortunate battle of Kalka (1223),
+the hopes of redemption seemed feeble and distant. He assembled his
+troops, and defeated the countless hosts of Mamai on the shores of the
+Don.
+
+[4] Mazeppa.
+
+[5] Prince Smolensko.
+
+[6] Before the battle of Borodino an eagle hovered round his head, and
+was observed by the whole army, who set up a general shout of joy.
+
+[7] Baggovuth was killed in the battle of the Tarutina.
+
+[8] Near Lutzin, where he had passed his boyhood, and where his mother
+yet lived.
+
+[9] Kutaissov was a young poet of considerable talents: he was killed
+at the battle of Borodino. His horse was seen wildly galloping about,
+covered with blood; and his body could not be discovered for a long
+time.
+
+[10] Bagration received his mortal wound at the battle of Borodino; but
+it was for a long time expected that he would recover.
+
+[11] Holy Alliance.
+
+[12] Of Bojan little is known. He is supposed to have accompanied the
+Russians in the dark ages, and to have excited them to valour with his
+magic lyre.
+
+[13] I have adopted the word Catherine. SVÆTLANA does not easily
+accommodate itself to our organs of sense.
+
+
+
+
+KARAMSIN.
+
+
+RAÏSSA.
+
+    In the dark night the storm-wind rages,
+    The gray flash trembles in the sky;
+    Rolls from the blackening clouds the thunder,
+    And rattling torrents sweep the wood.
+
+    No signs of life, of living beings,
+    The welcoming roof had shelter’d all,
+    All but one lost and lonely wanderer--
+    Raïssa--to the dark night bare.
+
+    Despair was seated in her bosom;
+    The thunder-tempest moved her not;
+    And even the hurricane’s loud howling
+    Scarce drown’d Raïssa’s heavy plaints.
+
+    Her cheek was like the faded foliage,
+    Her lip--th’ unwater’d, withering flow’r;
+    Upon her eye--a veil of darkness,
+    And fearful were her bosom’s throbs.
+
+    There hurried from her snowy bosom,
+    Which savage, thorny boughs had torn,
+    Of burning blood a crimson rivulet--
+    It fell upon the green damp ground.
+
+    Above the sea, a granite mountain
+    Raised proudly its gigantic head;
+    Raïssa scaled it, wandering lonely
+    Through clefts and stony pyramids.
+
+    The deep raged furiously--the lightning
+    Frightfully flash’d;--the mountain-waves
+    Roll’d, lifting up their maddening voices;
+    And the earth trembled as they spoke.
+
+    Raïssa look’d around--was silent:
+    But soon her tones of sorrow burst,
+    And mingled with the raging tempest--
+    ‘Lost--lost for ever! Woe is me!
+
+    ‘Kronīd--Kronīd--O cruel lover!
+    O whither, whither art thou fled?
+    Why hast thou left thy own Raïssa
+    Alone in such a dreadful night?
+
+    ‘Kronīd--return--return--forgiveness,
+    Forgetfulness, shall both be thine:
+    No!--Thou wilt come not to Raïssa--
+    Why did I know thee--wherefore love?
+
+    ‘My father and my mother loved me,
+    And fondest love was their return;
+    My days roll’d by, on downy pinions,
+    Midst harmless sports and joyous thoughts.
+
+    ‘Thou didst approach me like an angel,
+    And, sighing, these sweet words didst say:
+    “I love thee--yes! I love--Raïssa!”
+    My parents’ love I soon forgot.
+
+    ‘Transported, yet with trembling bosom,
+    And weeping in that dream of bliss,
+    Into thy opening arms I threw me,
+    And gave my heart alone to thee.
+
+    ‘On thee reposed and dwelt my spirit,
+    I breathed, I lived for thee alone;
+    The sun in thy sweet smile was beaming,
+    Thou wert my present deity.
+
+    ‘Why, when thy bosom beat with rapture,
+    Why died I not--in transports then:
+    Had I not seen thee false and treacherous,
+    How sweet, how blessed ’twere to die.
+
+    ‘But ah! while thus securely dreaming
+    In deepest sleep, another maid
+    Loved and was loved--and I am banished--
+    Banished is thy Raïssa now.
+
+    ‘I thought I lay upon his bosom--
+    I stretch’d my arms t’ embrace him there--
+    I but embraced the heedless breezes--
+    He was already far away.
+
+    ‘The dream was fled--and I awoke me--
+    I call’d thee--all was still as death:
+    I sought thee with strain’d eye--but vainly--
+    My friend, my friend was no where found.
+
+    ‘I hurried to a mountain-summit,
+    I--hapless-spirited! Kronīd
+    Is fled afar with his Liudmilla!
+    Then sank I senseless on the earth.
+
+    ‘And since that miserable moment
+    My days, my nights in sorrow flow;
+    I seek thee--every where I call thee--
+    But never hast thou heard my voice.
+
+    ‘And now the spirit-worn Raïssa
+    Calls on thee for the last, last time;--
+    For peace has left my soul for ever.--
+    Farewell! and be without me blest!’
+
+    So spoke Raïssa--and she threw her
+    Into the sea. The thunder roar’d:
+    The heavens announced that she had perish’d
+    To him that had destroy’d her there.
+
+
+THE HAVEN.
+
+    When the dangerous rocks are past,
+    When the threatening tempests cease,
+    O how sweet to rest at last
+    In a silent port of peace!
+
+    Though that port may be unknown,
+    Though no chart its name may bear,
+    Brightly beam its lights on _one_--
+    Blest to find his refuge there.
+
+    There he paints the joyous band--
+    Friends and family--what more?
+    Bliss!--he cries--thou hallow’d land!
+    And he springs upon the shore.
+
+    Life! thou art the storm--the rock!
+    Death! the friendly port thou art:--
+    Haven from the tempest shock,
+    Welcoming the wanderer’s heart.
+
+    Yes! I see from yonder tomb
+    Promised peace and tranquil rest:
+    Death! my haven! I shall come,
+    Soothe me on thy mother-breast.
+
+
+SONG OF THE GOOD TZAR.
+
+_Pæsnya o dobrom Tzaræ._
+
+    Russia had a noble Tzar,
+    Sovereign honour’d wide and far;
+    He a father’s love enjoy’d,
+    He a father’s power employ’d.
+
+    And he sought his children’s bliss,
+    And their happiness was his:
+    Left for them his golden halls,
+    Left for them his palace walls.
+
+    He, a wanderer for them,
+    Left his royal diadem:
+    Staff and knapsack all his treasure;
+    Toil and danger all his pleasure.
+
+    Wherefore hath he journey’d forth,
+    From his glorious, sceptred north?
+    Flying pride, and pomp, and power;
+    Suffering heat, and cold, and shower.
+
+    Why?--because this noble king,
+    Light and truth and bliss might bring,
+    Spread intelligence, and pour
+    Knowledge out on Russia’s shore.
+
+    Wherefore would this noble king
+    Light and truth and virtue bring,
+    Spread intelligence, and pour
+    Knowledge out on Russia’s shore?
+
+    He would guide by wisdom’s ray
+    All his subjects in their way;
+    And while beams of glory giving,
+    Teach them all the arts of living.
+
+    O thou noble King and Tzar!
+    Earth ne’er saw so bright a star--
+    Tell me, have ye ever found
+    Such a prince the world around?
+
+
+TO ----.
+
+    Where art thou lingering, tell me, thou fair one?
+    There where the nightingale wakes her soft music,
+        In the night’s darkness complaining
+        From the top boughs of the myrtle?
+
+    There, where in solitude murmurs the streamlet,
+    Gliding along its green borders unnoticed,
+        Soothing man’s turbulent bosom
+        Gently to peace and to silence?
+
+    There, where the rose in its pride and its glory
+    Blushes, bedew’d with the tears of the morning,
+        While with the breezes disporting;
+        Whispering its thoughts to the zephyrs?
+
+    There, where the sun first illumines the mountain--
+    Heights inaccessible--cloud-fashion’d palace--
+        Where, in the ages departed,
+        Spirits and gods had their dwellings?
+
+    Oft have I heard thy sweet voice gently speaking,
+    Oft on thy throne of bright clouds have I seen thee,
+        Stretch’d out my arms to embrace thee--
+        Ah!--I had seized but a shadow.
+
+
+TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
+
+    Sing in the forest’s leafy night,
+    Gentle bird--unnoticed sing;
+    Sing in Luna’s silver light,
+    Tones of sorrow echoing.
+      Tell me why my tears are falling
+    Like a rivulet--tell me why
+    Memory, when the past recalling,
+    Blends thee with the days gone by?
+    Ah! those hallow’d friends I number,
+    Who upon earth’s peaceful breast
+    In death’s tomb of silence slumber!
+    Green moss decks their place of rest.
+    All their turfs, sweet flowers adorn them,
+    I am left alone to mourn them--
+    Still I mourn them--still regret--
+    Therefore like a rivulet
+    Flow my tears--with whom shall I
+    Now thy sweetest strains enjoy?
+    Who shall greet the spring with me?
+    Spring is winter--wanting thee.
+    Now my soul must bow, subdued,
+    Life has no vicissitude;
+    All is dark--my heart is weary--
+    And the world--all waste and dreary.
+      Tell me, lovely nightingale,
+    When thy gentle song will fall
+    On my grave? for O its breath
+    Is meet melody for death.
+
+
+
+
+DOLGORUKOV.
+
+
+THE LEGACY.
+
+    When time’s vicissitudes are ended
+    Be this, be this my place of rest;
+    Here let my bones with earth be blended,
+    Till sounds the trumpet of the blest.
+    For here, in common home, are mingled
+    Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled;
+    And those whom fortune--fame pass’d by:
+    All mingled--and all mouldering;--folly
+    And wisdom--mirth and melancholy--
+    Slaves--tyrants--all mixt carelessly.
+
+    List! ’tis the voice of time--Creation’s
+    Unmeasured arch repeats the tone;
+    Look! even like shadows, mighty nations
+    Are born--flit by us--and are gone!
+    See! children of a common father,
+    See stranger-crowds, like vapors gather;
+    Sires--sons--descendants--come and go:
+    Sad history! Yet even there the spirit
+    Some joys may build--some hopes inherit,
+    And wisdom gather flowers from woe.
+
+    There, like a bee-swarm, round the token
+    Of unveil’d truth, shall sects appear,
+    And evil’s poisonous sting be broken
+    In the bright glance of virtue’s spear.
+    And none shall ask--What dormitory
+    Was this man’s doom--what robes of glory
+    Wore he--what garlands crown’d his brow--
+    Was pomp his slave?--Come, now discover
+    The heart, the soul--Delusion’s over--
+    What was his _conduct_?--Answer now!
+
+    Where stands yon hill-supported tower,
+    By Fili, shall I wake again,
+    Summon’d to meet Almighty Power
+    In judgment--like my fellow men.
+    I shall be there--and friends and brothers--
+    Sisters and children--fathers, mothers,--
+    With joy that never shall decay;
+    The soul, substantial blessings beaming,
+    (All here is shadowy and seeming)
+    Drinks bliss--no time can sweep away.
+
+    Friends, on my brow, that rests when weary,
+    Erect no proud and pompous pile:
+    Your monuments are vain and dreary,
+    Their splendour cannot deck the vile.
+    A green grave, by no glare attended,
+    With other dust and ashes blended,
+    O let my dust and ashes lie;
+    There, as I sleep, time, never sleeping,
+    Shall gather ages to his keeping,
+    For such is nature’s destiny.
+
+    My wife, my children shall inherit
+    All I possess’d--’twas mine--’tis theirs;
+    For death, that steals the living spirit,
+    Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs.
+    Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow,
+    No garments of the raven borrow;
+    ’Tis idle charge--’tis costly pride.
+    Be gay, through rain or frosty weather,
+    Nor gather idle priests together
+    To chaunt my humble grave beside.
+
+    Cry, orphans!--cry, ye poor!--imploring
+    The everlasting God, that _He_
+    May save me when I sink--adoring--
+    Amidst his boundless mercy-sea.
+    My blessing to my foes be given,
+    Their curses far from me be driven,
+    Nor break upon my hallow’d bliss;
+    God needs no studied words from mortals,
+    A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals--
+    He could not err--He taught us this.
+
+    No songs, no elegy--death hearkens
+    To music ne’er though sweet it be:
+    When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens,
+    Then let oblivion shadow me.
+    No verse will soften Hades’ sadness,
+    No verse can break on Eden’s gladness,
+    ’Tis all parade, and shifting glare:--
+    A stream--where scatter’d trees are growing,
+    A secret tear--in silence flowing--
+    No monument as these so fair.
+
+    Such slumber here--their memory flashes
+    Across my thoughts.--Hail--Sister! hail--
+    I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes,
+    And soon shall share thy mournful tale.
+    Thou hast paid thy earthly debts--’tis ended--
+    Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended,
+    The circle of thy being run;
+    And now in peace thy history closes,
+    And thy still’d, crumbling frame reposes
+    Where life’s short, feverish play is done.
+
+    I live and toil--my thoughts still follow
+    The idle world:--my cares pursue
+    Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow,
+    And vanities still false though new.
+    Then fly I earthly joys--I find them
+    Leave terror-working stings behind them:
+    ‘Beware! beware!’ experience cries;
+    Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty,
+    One smile of yonder flattering beauty
+    Would make me waste even centuries.
+
+
+
+
+BATIUSHKOV.
+
+
+TO F. F. KOKOSHKIN,
+
+ON THE DEATH OF HIS BRIDE.
+
+    Ah! the flower is dead--the beauty is departed--
+              All is fled we cherished;
+    Love and Friendship, weep! Weep, Hymen, broken-hearted!
+              Happiness is perished.
+
+    Friendship! thy swift hands, with smiles and joys, array’d her
+              In her living glory;
+    Now, with sighs and tears, those trembling hands have laid her
+              In earth’s dormitory.
+
+    Plant the cypress there, the yew’s dark umbrage borrow,
+              For such shade is meetest;
+    Scatter wreaths, which youth shall dew with tears of sorrow,
+              For youth’s tears are sweetest.
+
+    All is gloomy round--the gale, while it reposes,
+              Drops its tone of gladness:
+    And some shadowy ghost strips all the budding roses--
+              ’Tis the shrine of sadness.
+
+    Hymen lingers here--pale, fetter’d, chill’d, despairing,
+              Bent by grief undying:
+    See his folded arms, bent eyes--his torch, yet flaring,
+              On the grave is lying.
+
+
+THE FAREWELL.
+
+    Bent o’er his sabre, torrents starting
+    From his dim eyes, the bold hussar
+    Thus greets his cherish’d maid, while parting
+        For distant fields of war:
+
+    ‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee!
+    No anguish can those tears remove;
+    For, by my troth and beard, I swear thee,
+        Time shall not change my love.
+
+    ‘That love shall bloom--a deathless blossom,
+    My shield in fight--with sword in hand,
+    And thou, my Lila, in my bosom,
+        What shall that sword withstand?
+
+    ‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee!
+    Those tears can bid no grief depart;
+    And were I faithless, Maid! I swear thee,
+        Anguish would tear my heart!
+
+    ‘Then my good steed would sure betray me,
+    And falter in the battle-fray,
+    In peril’s hours refuse t’ obey me--
+        My stirrup would give way.
+
+    ‘The sword, my valour’s proudest token,
+    When grasp’d, like rotten wood would break;
+    And I should seek thee, spirit-broken,
+        Death’s paleness on my cheek.’
+
+    But the false horseman’s steed obey’d him,
+    Gentle and eager still;--his sword,
+    Bright and unbroken, ne’er betray’d him,
+        Though he broke oath and word.
+
+    The tale of love--the tears which shower’d
+    From Lila’s eye--were all forgot;
+    The rose-wreath faded--pale--deflower’d:--
+        Such buds re-blossom not!
+
+    That maiden’s breast of peace he rifles;
+    Then hies him to another’s breast;
+    Man’s oaths to woman are but--trifles;
+        And love itself--a jest.
+
+    He serves--secures--and then he slights them;
+    His vows are change--and treachery;
+    For laughing Cupid’s arrow writes them
+        Upon the shifting sea.
+
+
+THE FRIEND’S SHADOW.
+
+    _Sunt aliquid manes; letum non omnia finit;
+    Luridaque evictos effugit umbra rogos._
+                                        PROPERTIUS.
+
+    To Albion’s misty isle across the waves I sped me:
+    It look’d as if interr’d beneath a leaden sea,
+    And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me,
+    While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody.
+    The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling,
+    And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill,
+    And to the watch the active helmsman calling,
+    The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still.
+    All seem’d to rock itself to gentle thought;
+    Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, look’d forth,
+    And through the night and through the mist I sought,
+    I sought the star beloved of my domestic north.
+    Then into memory melted every feeling--
+    My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace,
+    And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing,
+    Cover’d my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness.
+    Then dreams with other dreams were blended,
+    And lo! there stood--was it a dream?--the form
+    Of that dear friend who his career had ended
+    Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm.
+    He stood upon the mist, and smiled--his face,
+    Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining
+    Like the young spring in gaiety and grace,
+    Even as an angel from high heaven declining:--
+    ‘Comrade of better time! and is it thou?
+    And is it thou?’ I cried, ‘thou hero bright!
+    Did I not in the fury of the fight
+    Attend thee--and when thou hadst fallen below
+    Make thy new grave--and on a neighbouring tree
+    Write with my sword thy feats of bravery,
+    And follow’d thy cold ashes to their bed,
+    And hallow’d it with prayers, and with tears watered?
+    Speak, unforgotten one! speak! was it a deceit?
+    Is all that’s past a dream--a cheating dream?
+    A dream that corpse--a dream that grave--that sheet
+    Wrapt round thee--were they not--did they but _seem_?
+    O but one word! let that tongue’s melody
+    Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear:
+    O unforgotten one! stretch out to me
+    Thy old right hand of friendship--stretch it here.’
+    I sprung towards him--Oh! the mists had dimm’d my eye--
+    He vanish’d like a shade--a lock of airy smoke--
+    Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky,
+    And I, arousing from my dream, awoke.
+      Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping;
+    The very winds--the very waves, at rest;
+    And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping;
+    The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast.
+    But I was troubled--peace had left my soul--
+    I stretch’d my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see--
+    I called on him--whom I could not control--
+    On thee--belov’d one! best of friends! on thee!
+
+
+LOVE IN A BOAT.
+
+    ’Tis a calm and silent even,
+      Luna rests upon the sea;
+    See! the impelling breeze has driven,
+      Driven a little bark to me.
+
+    What a lovely child is seated
+      At the helm--a trembling child!
+    ‘Thou wilt perish, boy ill-fated!
+      Whelm’d among the surges wild.’
+
+    ‘Help me! help me! gentle stranger!
+      All my strength, alas! is gone:
+    Take the helm--conduct the ranger
+      To some harbour of thy own.’
+
+    Pity’s warmth, that never freezes,
+      Bid me seize the helm:--we sped,
+    Wafted by awakening breezes,
+      As by feather’d arrows led.
+
+    Swiftly, swiftly then we glided
+      By the flowery shores along;
+    Reach’d a spot where joy presided,
+      Smiling nymphs, and dance and song.
+
+    Music welcomed us and laughter,
+      Garlands at our feet were thrown;
+    Then I look’d my wanderer after--
+      I was left--the bark was gone.
+
+    On the stormy shore I laid me,
+      Careless of the surge’s spray;
+    Sought the child who had betray’d me,
+      Saw him laugh--and row away.
+
+    Lo! he beckons--lo! he urges--
+      Through the noisy waves I fly:
+    Off he speeds across the surges,
+      Laughing out with louder joy.
+
+    Wet and weary, I retreated
+      To the scene of revelry:--
+    ’Twas a fairy dream that cheated--
+      All was blank obscurity.
+
+    Wanderer! if that boat should ever
+      Meet thy vision, O be coy!
+    ’Tis delusive--trust him never--
+      Cupid is a wicked boy.
+
+
+THE PRISONER.
+
+    There, where the swift Rhone’s waters flow
+      Its verdant banks between;
+    Where fragrant myrtles bending grow,
+      And Rhone reflects their green;
+    There, where the vineyards deck the hills,
+      And o’er the valleys spread,
+    Which golden citrons’ fragrance fills,
+      And plantains rear their head--
+
+    There stood, as sunk the lord of day,
+      Upon the smiling shore,
+    One who long watch’d the waters play,
+      And thought his sorrows o’er;
+    A Russian hero--stolen by war,
+      The honour of the Don;
+    Divided from his friends afar,
+      He wander’d there alone.
+
+    ‘O roll!’ he sang, ‘ye waters roll--
+      Flow in your glory on;
+    Your waves shall waken on my soul
+      The memory of the Don.
+    My days pass by without an aim,
+      Amidst life’s busy roar;
+    For what is life without its fame,
+      Or the bright world?--’tis poor.
+
+    ‘Now nature wears its spring-tide dress,
+      The sun shines splendidly;
+    All liberty and loveliness--
+      O! why am I not free?
+    O roll, ye waters! rage, thou Rhone!
+      And waken, as ye roll,
+    The thoughts of my domestic zone
+      Within my troubled soul.
+
+    ‘The maidens here are fair and bright,
+      Their glance is full of fire;
+    And their all-graceful smiles of light
+      Might satisfy desire.
+    But what is love in foreign lands,
+      Or joy?--I only know
+    The joy and love that bless our sands,
+      Midst forests and midst snow.
+
+    ‘Give me my freedom--let me tread
+      Once more my country’s strand;
+    With frost and storm all overspread--
+      My home--my father-land!
+    Deep is the snow around my door;
+      But give me my own steed,
+    And day and night, the mountains o’er,
+      Me to my home he’ll lead.
+
+    ‘At home, there’s one who sits and keeps
+      The memory of her love;
+    And often to the window creeps,
+      And pours her prayers above.
+    She guards the thoughts of him whose mind
+      Guards every thought of her;
+    She pats the horse I left behind--
+      How privileged to be there!
+
+    ‘O roll, thou Rhone! ye waters roll--
+      Rush in your glory on;
+    Your waves still waken in my soul
+      The memory of the Don.
+    Come, winds! come hither from the north,
+      Come, in your freshness, come:
+    And thou bright pole-star blazen forth,
+      Memento of my home!’
+
+    So spake the prisoner, as he turn’d
+      To Lyons his tired eye,
+    When long in exile’s chains he mourn’d
+      His hapless destiny.
+    He sang--the Rhone roll’d proudly on,
+      The moon oft kiss’d its tide;
+    And oft on Lyons’ turrets shone
+      The sun in all his pride.
+
+
+TO THE RHINE.
+
+FRAGMENT.
+
+    Here, in the misty days of time departed,
+      The ranks of bards oft tuned their solemn hymn;
+    Teutonic minstrels sang--gay--eager-hearted--
+      Still’d is their music now--their light is dim.
+        Thy waves roll on--they roll as then--
+          Their proud, untired, untroubled way--
+        Eternal is thy course--while men,
+          Unlike thy waves--decline--decay.
+
+
+
+
+MERSLAKOV.
+
+
+ON THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON.
+
+ISAIAH XIV. 5-28.
+
+    ’Tis over--she exists no more--
+    The terror of the bad and good
+    Is fallen--an awful solitude
+    Spreads all her insolent trophies o’er.
+    Her crumbling ruins are in dust:
+    The Almighty, in his anger just,
+    Has scatter’d all her glories: He--
+    The Lord--hath riven the heavy yoke--
+    He hath th’ accursed sceptre broke,
+    And given his people liberty.
+
+    Thus did the Lord--the Lord of might!
+    His day of wrath for us is past;
+    The smiter he hath smitten at last,
+    And beam’d on us his smile of light.
+    Joy round his Israel’s tents has sped,
+    And grateful Lebanon bows his head,
+    And joins with ours his song of praise:
+    The heavenly cedars from on high
+    Bending--‘And thou art razed,’ they cry,
+    ‘And we have seen thy dying blaze.’
+
+    Destruction now, in robes of night,
+    Hath veil’d thy fading rays in gloom;
+    Strange shadows round thee take their flight,
+    As on the storm the surges’ foam.
+    The empress of a hundred states--
+    The city of the thousand gates--
+    Her glory in the dust is laid.
+    ‘What! thou who wert a god in pride,
+    ‘Is this thy fate--so magnified,
+    ‘And so defenceless--so decay’d?’
+
+    Where is thy pride, thy pageantry?
+    Where is thy glory, humbled thing?
+    O bid thy choral voices sing
+    The triumphs of thy vanity!
+    No! all is still--for, like a shade,
+    The idle tones of flattery fade;
+    And music’s charms--a shifting play.
+    Murd’ress! how baseless was thy trust!
+    Thy house is night, thy bed the dust,
+    Thy covering--crawling worms of clay.
+
+    There was a light from heaven that shone,
+    Dazzling all visions with its ray:
+    It shone in glory yesterday--
+    This morn it glanced--but now ’tis gone.
+    Then, thine was an imperial will--
+    Now, as the grave, thy voice is still.
+    Thou saidst, in insolent pride, ‘My throne
+    ‘I’ll build upon the highest star--
+    ‘Ride on the rolling clouds afar,
+    ‘And this proud Zion trample down.
+
+    ‘My car the glorious sky shall sweep,
+    ‘My towers the very heavens shall reach,
+    ‘Obedience to the gods to teach:’
+    And now--thou art a ruin’d heap.
+    The pilgrim who shall seek thee there,
+    Will only find a wild-beast’s lair
+    In a vast desert: he shall stand
+    Trembling before the God of heaven,
+    And pray his sins may be forgiven,
+    And hide his pale cheek in his hand.
+
+    Was this the city that we fear’d,
+    This she whose fetter-bearing hands
+    Enslaved, insulted countless lands,
+    While misery in her train appear’d?
+    Who shall resist death’s mighty claim?
+    Who shall oppose the good man’s fame?
+    His sons shall watch his gen’rous fires,
+    And he shall live in memory’s store,
+    In the wet eyelids of the poor,
+    Until he sleeps where sleep his sires.
+
+    Thou’rt stretch’d upon the battle-plain,
+    And shame and misery hem thee round;
+    Indignant voices curse the ground
+    Where thou once rear’dst thy trophies vain.
+    Thou, the destroyer of thy sons!
+    Thou, thy own people’s murderer once!
+    Now liest beneath th’ unwholesome dew--
+    A peaceful grave is now denied thee.
+    The God of vengeance stands beside thee,
+    Thy children’s children to pursue.
+
+    Now rise, in all thy fury rise,
+    Sprout of the fallen accursed race;
+    New threats of slavery I trace--
+    Another plague towards us flies.
+    No! God hath said: ‘My strength shall wake,
+    And in the storm and thunder speak,
+    And sweep the daring hordes away;
+    Their towns the tygers’ haunts shall be,
+    Their lands--the cradle of the sea,
+    And all their memory shall decay.’
+
+    He spake--and as He spoke ’twas done:
+    The mandate of Thy heavenly will
+    To utter, Lord! is to fulfil;
+    For art Thou not th’ Almighty One?
+    Thou hast subdued their tyranny,
+    Broken our bonds of slavery;
+    Hast waved Thy fearful, fiery rod:
+    And who shall check Thy awful hand?
+    Who shall Thy thunderbolt withstand?
+    Who battle with a battling God?
+
+
+
+
+VOEIKOV.
+
+
+TO MY FUTURE BRIDE.
+
+    O unknown being! thou whom long my soul has sought,
+      Vision of fancy bright, thou mild and lovely queen!
+    Thou, vainly, long, pursued by my impatient thought,
+      Thou pure divinity unseen!
+
+    O tell me in what mist thou veil’st thy shadowy form!
+      O tell me where thy steps have left their wonted trace!
+    For in hope’s sunshine hour, and in grief’s frowning storm,
+      I feel thou art my resting place.
+
+    When I my civic post, or social circle fill,
+      And with th’ infirm and poor my narrow portion share,
+    The widows’ sorrows soothe, the orphans’ murmuring still,
+      I know, sweet spirit! thou art there.
+
+    When fancy takes her flight beyond terrestrial things,
+      And towers above all space, and leaves behind all time;
+    And up to holiest stars of thought’s creation springs,
+      Thou art her brightest dream sublime.
+
+    Once, in the moonlight’s shade, I saw thee, angel! stand,
+      (Bent o’er a marble urn, whose waters gently swell’d)
+    Clad in celestial white, bound with an azure band,
+      A heavenly lyre thy fingers held.
+
+    And once, amidst a crowd, bright tears hung on thine eye,
+      Thy head sunk on thy breast, devotion seem’d t’ engross
+    Thy thoughts, and kneeling, thou pray’dst heaven in ecstasy,
+      Pressing the consecrated cross.
+
+    I saw thee, angel-like, through yonder temple glide,
+      Scattering thy light around like some ray-crested saint,
+    Whispering sweet notes of peace, in the still eventide,
+      To many a pilgrim tired and faint.
+
+    I love to paint thee when thy bounty’s generous store
+      Soothes the gray beggar’s wants, and comforts the distrest,
+    Anoints the sick with oil, provides with bread the poor,
+      And for the houseless finds a rest.
+
+    And O! how blest, to dream that thou may’st yet be mine,
+      A very dove of peace, around my steps to hie,
+    Waking from thy sweet lyre a melody divine,
+      Gay as a summer butterfly.
+
+    And when upon the wave, midst twilight’s peaceful gleam,
+      I launch my little bark, wilt thou sit smiling by,
+    And with thy lovely hand conduct it o’er the stream,
+      And rule my blessed destiny;
+
+    And listen to my tale of fond and passionate love:
+      Not, like a ghost, as now, but holding in thy hand
+    A golden lamp; nor e’er seek thy own shrine above,
+      But throw aside thy misty band.
+
+    My guardian spirit, hail! unveil thee in thy bloom,
+      For thou art lovelier far than feeble poet’s art;
+    Come in thy virtues now--in all thy glory come,
+      And fill the vacuum of my heart.
+
+
+
+
+MURAVIEV.
+
+
+TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVA.
+
+    Glide, majestic Neva! glide thee,
+      Deck’d with bright and peaceful smiles;
+    Palaces are raised beside thee,
+      Midst the shadows of the isles.
+
+    Stormy Russian seas thou bindest
+      With the ocean--by the grave
+    Of our glorious Tzar thou windest,
+      Which thy grateful waters lave.
+
+    And the middle-ocean’s surges
+      All thy smiling naiads court;
+    While thy stream to Paros urges,
+      And to Lemnos’ classic port.
+
+    Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded,
+      See the brightest memories fade;
+    Glassy mirrors--how degraded!
+      Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade.
+
+    While thy happier face is bearing
+      Ever-smiling images,
+    On thy busy banks appearing
+      Crowds in gaiety and peace.
+
+    Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes,
+      Spread their riches o’er thy breast,
+    While thy well-known banner rises,
+      Rises proudly o’er the rest.
+
+    In thy baths what beauties bathe them,
+      Goddesses of love and light;
+    There Erota loves to swathe them
+      In the brightest robes of night.
+
+    Cool thy smiling banks at even,
+      Cool thy grottos and thy cells,
+    Where, by gentle breezes driven,
+      Oft the dancing billow swells.
+
+    Then thou gatherest vapours round thee,
+      Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress;
+    Love and Mirth have now unbound thee--
+      Yield thee to thy waywardness.
+
+    Thou dost bear the dying over,
+      Weary of his earthly dream[1];
+    And with awful mists dost cover
+      All the bosom of the stream.
+
+    With thy car thou troublest never
+      The calm silence of the deep;
+    Syrens dance around thee ever,
+      Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep.
+
+    Peaceful goddess! oft the singer
+      Sees thee, in his ecstasy,
+    On the rock he loves to linger,
+      Sleepless--then he meets with thee.
+
+
+BOLESLAV,
+
+KING OF POLAND.
+
+    Fame and glory’s feeble embers
+      Fade o’er many a hero brave;
+    But the faithful Pole remembers
+      The good prince--King Boleslav.
+
+    True to love, though purple-girded--
+      True to friendship, though a king;
+    In his inner soul there herded
+      Thoughts for ever festering.
+
+    He was happy--but two brothers
+      Saw with dark and secret hate
+    Their proud father-land another’s--
+      They aspired to rule the state.
+
+    They were loved--the king delighted
+      All his love to pour on them;
+    But a maiden’s faith was plighted,
+      And he saw the promised gem.
+
+    As the lily, courted only
+      By the breezes of the wood;
+    So Volhynia’s princess lonely,
+      Shrouded her in solitude.
+
+    Sbignei saw--and loved--communion
+      Of affections swiftly grew:
+    They were sworn to holy union,
+      Sworn to Hymen’s pledges true.
+
+    List!--the trumpets call the forces;
+      See the dust clouds on the fields;
+    Hark!--the impatient neigh of horses--
+      ‘To the fight!’--and Sbignei yields.
+
+    To the town the monarch drew him,
+      Not in pride of victory;--
+    Saw the princess--and he threw him
+      Bending at the lady’s knee.
+
+    Tears adown her cheeks were flowing,
+      And in agony she cried:
+    ‘Whither is my Sbignei going?
+      O desert me not--thy bride!’
+
+    Yet two moons had told their story--
+      Sick with love is Boleslav;
+    He forgot his martial glory,
+      And his army true and brave.
+
+    Sbignei now all truce hath broken,
+      His Bohemian troops he calls;
+    See his rebel standard-token
+      Marching on Volhynia’s walls.
+
+    ’Tis in vain--he is forsaken--
+      The Bohemian bands have fled;
+    He himself a prisoner taken--
+      But his vizor veils his head.
+
+    See!--the jealous king espies him
+      Sleeping on Volhynia’s knee--
+    Draws his dagger and destroys him--
+      ’Twas his brother!--’twas not he!
+
+    Who shall tell the murderer’s madness--
+      Who shall paint his deathlike look?
+    There he stood, in grief and sadness,
+      Staggering--starting--thunderstruck.
+
+    Fain his steel he would have buried
+      In his tortur’d throbbing breast;
+    But th’ attendant courtiers hurried,
+      From his hand that steel to wrest.
+
+    Then he left his kingly palace,
+      All he left--except his woe;
+    To the spot that Calvary hallows,
+      Pilgrim-like he vow’d to go.
+
+    Every city where he wander’d
+      Heard his crime, and heard his prayers:
+    O’er his wretched fate he ponder’d,
+      Asking pardon even with tears.
+
+    Be he pardon’d!--his repentance--
+      May it bring his soul relief:
+    Mournful is man’s earthly sentence,
+      Glory is no shield from grief.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    She bent her head, and the tears that fell
+      Were veil’d as there were shame in tears:
+    Her lips were closed, but a low ‘farewell’
+      Had glided from those lips of hers.
+
+    The pale moon shone, and she raised her eye,
+      It sparkled in the heavenly ray--
+    A smile awoke, and the tear was dry--
+      And the maiden sped her on her way.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] The burying-place at Petersburg is on the other side of the Neva.
+
+
+
+
+KAPNIST.
+
+
+ON JULIA’S DEATH.
+
+    The evening darkness shrouds
+      The slumbering world in peace,
+    And from her throne of clouds
+      Shines Luna through the trees.
+    My thoughts in silence blend,
+      But gather’d all to thee:
+    Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
+      O come! and mourn with me.
+
+    Upon her grave I bow,
+      The green grave where she lies:
+    O hear my sorrows now,
+      And consecrate my sighs!
+    This is her ashes’ bed--
+      Here her cold relics sleep--
+    Where I my tears shall shed
+      While this torn heart can weep.
+
+    O Julia! never rose
+      Had half the charms of thee--
+    My comfort--my repose--
+      O! thou wert all to me.
+    But thou art gone--and I
+      Must bear life’s load of clay--
+    And pray--and long to die--
+      Though dying day by day.
+
+    But I must cease to sing,
+      My lyre all mute appears--
+    Alas! its plaintive string
+      Is wetted with my tears.
+    O! misery’s song must end--
+      My thoughts all fly to thee:--
+    Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
+      O come and mourn with me!
+
+
+
+
+PETROV.
+
+
+ON THE
+
+VICTORY OF THE RUSSIAN OVER THE TURKISH FLEET.
+
+    O triumph! O delight! O time so rich in fame
+    Unclouded, bright and pure as the sun’s mid-day flame!
+    Ruthenia’s strength goes forth--see from the sea emerge
+    The Typhons of the north--the lightning, in its might,
+              Flashes in dazzling light,
+              And subject is the surge.
+
+    They wander o’er the waves--their eye impatiently
+    Seeks where the Moslem’s flag flaunts proudly o’er the sea--
+    ’Tis there!--’tis there! exclaim the brave impatient crowd--
+    The sails unfurl’d--each soul with rage and courage burns--
+              Each to the combat turns--
+              They meet--it thunders loud!
+
+    I see from Ætna’s rocks a floating army throng:
+    A hero, yet unsung, wafts the proud choir along--
+    The masts, a fir tree wood--the sails, like outspread wings.
+    List! to the shoutings--see! the flash--they thunder near.
+              Earthquakes and night are there--
+              With storms the welkin rings.
+
+    There _January_ speeds--there _Svætoslav_ moves on,
+    And waves and smoke alike are into tempest thrown;
+    And there the ship that bears the three-times hallow’d name[1],
+    And _Rotislav_ and _Europe_, there triumphant ride;
+              While the agitated tide
+              Is startled with the flame.
+
+    Eustav, in fire conceal’d, scatters the death-like brand,
+    And earth and heaven are moved, and tremble sea and land;
+    And there, a mountain pile, sends round the deeds of death,
+    As if Vesuvius’ self in combat were engaged--
+              While other mountains raged,
+              And pour’d their flaming breath.
+
+    The roar, the whiz, the hum, in one commingling sound,
+    The clouds of smoke that rise, and spread and roll around;
+    The waves attack the sky in wild and phrenzied dance;
+    The sails are white as snow; and now the sun looks on,
+              Now shrouds him on his throne--
+              And the swift lightnings glance.
+
+    Hard proof of valour this--the spirit’s fiery test:
+    Fierce combat--grown more fierce--bear high the burning breast!
+    See, on the waves there ride two mountains, fiery-bound,
+    Ætna and Hecla, loose on ocean’s heaving bed--
+              The burning torches spread,
+              And ruin stalks around.
+
+    Ocean, and shore, and air, rush backward at the sight,
+    The Greek and Turk stand still, and groan in wild affright;
+    Calm as a rock the Russ is welcoming death with death;
+    But ah! destruction now blazes its fiery links,
+              And even victory sinks
+              Its heavy weight beneath.
+
+    O frightful tragedy!--a furnace is the sea--
+    The triumph ours--the flames have reach’d the enemy:
+    He burns--he dies in smoke--beneath the struggle rude
+    The northern heroes sink, with weariness opprest,
+              And ask a moment’s rest,
+              As if they were subdued.
+
+    And whence that threatening cloud that hangs upon their head?
+    That threatens now to burst--What! is their leader dead?
+    And is he borne away, who all our bosoms warm’d?
+    He fell--there lies his sword--there lie his shield and helm--
+              What sorrows o’erwhelm
+              The conqueror disarm’d!
+
+    O no! he wakes again from night--he waves his hand,
+    Beckoning to the brave ranks that, mourning, round him stand:
+    ‘My brother!’ cried he--‘Heaven! and is my brother gone?--
+    Their sails unfurl--My friends! O see! O see! they fly--
+              On--“Death or vengeance!” cry,
+              On, on to Stambul’s throne!’
+
+    He fled--O hero! peace! there is no cause for grief,
+    He lives--thy brother lives, and Spiridov, his chief:
+    No dolphin saved them there--it was the Almighty God,
+    The God who sees thy deeds, thy valour who approves,
+              And tries the men he loves
+              With his afflictive rod.
+
+    The dreadful dream is past--past like a mist away,
+    And dawns, serene and bright, a cloudless victory day:
+    The trump of shadeless joy--the trump of triumph speaks;
+    The hero and his friend are met, and fled their fears;
+              They kiss each others cheeks,
+              They water them with tears.
+
+    They cried ‘And is our fame, and is our glory stain’d?
+    God is our shield--revenge and victory shall be gain’d--
+    We live--and Mahmoud’s might a hundred times shall fall;
+    We live--the astonish’d world our hero-deeds shall see.
+              And every victory
+              A burning fleet recall.
+
+    Whence this unusual glare o’er midnight’s ocean spread:
+    At what unwonted hour has Phœbus left his bed?
+    No! they are Russian crowds who struggle with the foe,
+    ’Tis their accordant torch that flashes through the night.
+              Sequana! see the might
+              Of Stambul sink below.
+
+    The harbour teems with life, an amphitheatre
+    Of sulphurous pitch and smoke, and awful noises there;
+    The fiends of hell are loose, the sea has oped its caves,
+    Fate rides upon the deep, and laughs amidst the fray,
+              Which feeds with human prey
+              The monsters of the waves.
+
+    See, like a furnace boils and steams the burning flood,
+    ’Tis fill’d with mortal flesh, ’tis red with mortal blood,
+    Devour’d by raging flames, drunk by the thirsty wave,
+    The clouds seem palpable--a thick and solid mass--
+              They sink like stone or brass
+              Into their water-grave.
+
+    Thou ruler of the tomb!--Dread hour of suffering,
+    When all the elements----Drop, Muse! thy feeble wing!
+    Hell, with its fiends--and all the fiends that man e’er drew
+    There mingled--Silence veil that awful memory o’er!
+              I see the hero pour
+              The tears of pity too!
+
+    O Peter! great in song, as great in glory once,
+    Look from thy throne sublime upon thy Russia’s sons:
+    See, how thy fleets have won the palm of victory,
+    And hear the triumph sound, even to the gate of heaven--
+              The Turkish strength is riven
+              Even in the Turkish sea.
+
+    Thee, Copenhagen saw--the Neptune of the Belt;
+    Now Cherma’s humbled sons before thy flag have knelt.
+    The helpless Greeks have fled--thy banner sees their shore,
+    Trembling they look around, while thy dread thunder swells,
+              And shakes the Dardanelles,
+              And Smyrna hears its roar.
+
+    Gallicians! fear ye not the now advancing flame,
+    Recording, as it flies, your own, your country’s shame?
+    In the dark days of old, your valiant fathers trod
+    In the brave steps of Rome, towards lands of southern glow;
+              Ye fight with Russians now,
+              Beneath the Moslems’ rod.
+
+    Where innocence is found--there, there protection wakes;
+    Where Catherine’s voice is heard--there truth, there justice speaks:
+    A ruler’s virtues are the strength and pride of states,
+    And surely ours shall bloom where Catherine’s virtues stand.
+              O enviable land!
+              Glory is at our gates.
+
+    Soar, eagle! soar again, spring upward to the height,
+    For yet the Turkish flag is flaunting in the light:
+    In Cherma’s port it still erects its insolent head,
+    And thou must pour again thy foes’ blood o’er the sea,
+              And crush their treachery,
+              And wide destruction spread!
+
+    But fame now summons thee from death to life again,
+    The people’s comfort now, their glory to maintain;
+    The hero’s palm is won.--Now turn thee and enhance
+    The hero’s triumphs with the patriot’s milder fame.
+              O Romans! without shame
+              On Duil’s spoils we glance.
+
+    We’ll consecrate to thee a towering marble dome!
+    From yonder southern sea, O bring thy trophies home,
+    Bring Scio’s trophies home,--those trophies still shall be
+    Thy glory, Orlov, thine!--the records of thy deeds,
+              When future valour reads
+              Astrea’s victory!
+
+    O could my waken’d muse a worthy offering bring,
+    O could my grateful lyre a song of glory sing,
+    O could I steal from thee the high and towering thought,
+    With thy proud name the world, the listening world I’d fill;
+              And Camoens’ harp be still,
+              And Gama be forgot!
+
+    Thine was a nobler far than Jason’s enterprise,
+    Whose name shines like a star in history’s glorious skies:
+    He bore in triumph home the rich, the golden fleece;
+    But with thy valour thou, and with thy conquering band,
+              Hast saved thy father land,
+              And given to Hellas peace.
+
+    But O! my tongue is weak to celebrate thy glory,
+    Thy valiant deeds shall live in everlasting story,
+    For public gratitude thy name will e’er enshrine--
+    Who loves his country, who his empress loves, will throw
+              His garland on thy brow,
+              And watch that fame of thine.
+
+    But when thou humbledst low the Moslem’s pride and scorn,
+    And badest her crescent sink, her vain and feeble horn,
+    And pass’dst the Belt again, with songs and hymns of joy,
+    Who that perceived thy flag, in all its mightiness,
+              What Russian could repress
+              The tears that dimm’d his eye?
+
+    I see the people rush to welcome thee again,
+    Thy ships, with trophies deep, upon the swelling main;
+    I see the maidens haste, the aged, and the young,
+    The children wave their hands, and to their fathers turn,
+              And thousand questions burn
+              On their inquiring tongue.
+
+    “Is this the eagle proud of whom we have been told,
+    Who led against the Turks the Russian heroes bold,
+    And with their warriors” blood the azure ocean dyed?
+    Is this our Orlov--this, with eagle’s heart and name[2],
+              His foe’s reproach and shame,
+              And Russia’s strength and pride?’
+
+    O yes! O yes! ’tis he--The eagle there appears,
+    And ocean bears him on, as proud of him she bears:
+    And see his brother too, who led to victory, there--
+    And Spirodov, whose praise all ages shall renew,
+              And Greig and Ilijn too--
+              The heroes--without fear.
+
+    But--wherefore do I rest--what fancies lead me on?
+    The glorious eagle now to Asia’s coasts is flown,
+    O’er streams, and hills, and vales, he takes his course sublime,
+    My eye in vain pursues his all-subduing flight.
+              O vision of delight!
+              O victory-girded time!
+
+    And heaven, and earth, and sea have seen our victories won,
+    And echo with the deeds that Catherine has done;
+    The Baltic coasts in vain oppose the march of Paul,
+    Not the vast north alone, but all th’ Ægean sea
+              Shall own his sovereignty,
+              And the whole earthly ball!
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] The Trinity.
+
+[2] _Orel_ is the Russian for eagle. _Orlov_, inflection of the noun.
+
+
+
+
+SHATROV.
+
+
+TO THE ARMY OF THE DON.
+
+    Moskva is stunn’d with the thunder-storm’s rattle:
+    See! for the Don has sprung over its banks,
+    Arm’d ’gainst the foe in fury and battle,
+                  Crowd to the ranks!
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Trump of the Tzar! which to triumph calls loudly--
+    Spirits of Moskva!--ye warriors away!
+    Thousand times thousand arrange themselves proudly,
+                  Ripe for the fray.
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    ‘Strive against God and our Russia shall no men,’
+    Ataman cried, while he brandish’d his spear,
+    ‘Scatter’d like ashes, they perish--our foemen,
+                  Where are they--where?’
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Fame-circled monarch! like waterfalls gushing
+    Down from the rocks, see thy children advance
+    On the false foe, in their energy rushing,
+                  Sabre and lance!
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Russians shall make them a pathway victorious;
+    Russians shall conquer from Neva to Rhine;
+    Armies shall fly at their enterprise glorious;
+                  Triumph is thine.
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Russia! O fear not! no foe shall assemble
+    Near thee--they shrink from the cross-flag ador’d.
+    Lo! at thy slings and thy sabres they tremble--
+                  Ready thy sword!
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Yes! let thy enemy rage--let him hector--
+    Strong though he be, he shall fly from the field.
+    Is not the mother of God our protector--
+                  Michael our shield?
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Ready!--to horse!--for the cannon shouts call our
+    Heroes to struggle for hopes so sublime!
+    God himself smiles on the high deeds of valour!--
+                  Children, ’tis time!
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Rush on the Franks--as pyramids steady--
+    Say, shall they enter the heart of our land?
+    No! for our heroes are gathering all ready;
+                  Firmly they stand,
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    See! for our legions are wildly advancing,
+    Bonaparte flies from the Sons of the Don;
+    Dull is the fame that so brightly was glancing--
+                  France is o’erthrown.
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Arrows like hailstones are clattering around us,
+    Sabres and spear-heads shine bright in the breeze,
+    And the swift bullets seem whispering--they sound as
+                  Swarming of bees.
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Three hundred thousand twice reckon’d oppose them
+    Vainly to Russia--’tis glory to see
+    How a small band of Cossāks overthrows them--
+                  Look how they flee.
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Cannons and muskets abandon’d--and duty
+    Forgotten--for death and for terror are nigh--
+    Willingly yield they their knapsacks and booty,
+                  Only to fly.
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    See how the raven is crouching, affrighted,
+    Where the proud eagle has built its own home;
+    Russia hath left them alarm’d and benighted--
+                  Russia their tomb.
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    So is the generous struggle rewarded;
+    So do the insolent enemy bleed;
+    So is the palace-crown’d, liberty-guarded
+                  Capital freed.
+                  Arm for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+    Thanks to the Highest One! honour and glory--
+    He has conducted us--saved is the throne!
+    Praise to the Tzar--and may garlands grow o’er ye,
+                  Sons of the Don!
+                  Arm’d for the right,
+                  Strong in the fight!
+
+
+
+
+VÆSEMSKY.
+
+
+TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS, ZH. B. AND S.
+
+    My brothers! whither scatter’d now?
+    What fate--what cruel fate could sever
+    Hands--souls--fast-bound--divided never?
+    But ye are fled--and fled for ever,
+    And I am left alone with woe!
+
+    The sigh I heave in silence here,
+    The careless zephyr bears away;
+    ’Tis lost in twilight’s darkening ray--
+    ’Tis veil’d in night--it fades in day--
+    It ne’er will reach your listening ear.
+
+    Perchance even now, while round me roll
+    Dark storms and misty clouds--even now,
+    Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow,
+    One calls upon his friend--and oh!
+    Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul.
+
+    Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest!
+    My spirit seems to cling to thee;
+    From sorrow--to felicity
+    Wafted--thy bark has pass’d the sea
+    Of storms--in joy’s calm port to rest.
+
+    How long shall absence’ misery last?
+    When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting?
+    Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting
+    Of social bliss return?--How fleeting
+    Its rapture--’Tis for ever past!
+
+    Cold--cold--I feel my heart;--delight
+    Can kindle ne’er its fire again--
+    My tears flow forth--they flow in vain;
+    My smiles--no light those smiles retain;
+    For what awaked it sinks in night.
+
+    Time was--how blessed to recall
+    That time--when our hands garlanded
+    The fairest wreaths of roses red,
+    And in youth’s spring the chorus led
+    To heaven--the source, the end of all.
+
+    Time was--but like a dream it fled!
+    The hymn--’tis now a funeral dirge;
+    The garland--’tis affliction’s scourge;
+    The dance--its memories now emerge
+    Like ghosts, that wander midst the dead.
+
+    And now the plaint ascends!--Appear,
+    Appear, delightful hours, anew!
+    Spirit of youth, so fond, so true,
+    Awake!--Suns, once so bright, so few,
+    Shine--let illusion’s mockery cheer!
+
+    But see! the darkness creeps away--
+    The clouds disperse--the storm is gone--
+    Thy smile returns not--blessed one!--
+    The mountains see the morning dawn--
+    To me, alas! there dawns no day.
+
+
+To N. N.
+
+ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.
+
+    As in the mid-day sun the flower
+      Looks brightest, and then bends its head,
+    So fell thy son--how short his hour
+      Of bliss--how rapidly he fled!
+
+    Yet o’er his cradle--o’er his tomb,
+      An everlasting daylight shone;
+    A promise of bright days to come--
+      Why came he--only to be gone?
+
+    As mounts the incense to the skies,
+      A towering cloud--with cold, pale cheek
+    Thou saw’st him to his Maker rise,
+      And his own blessed country seek.
+
+    He gave to thee his last, last sigh,
+      Ere yet he heaved his latest breath;
+    He turn’d to thee his dying eye,
+      Ere it was mantled o’er by death.
+
+    Thou hadst indulged the sweetest dream
+      Which hope e’er built, or time decay’d;
+    And in the future’s distant beam
+      Thy son a friend, a brother made.
+
+    The hours of youth’s delightful reign,
+      And rapture’s early, spring-tide joy;
+    Thou in his smiles hadst shared again,
+      And in thy boy wert twice a boy.
+
+    That vision is departed--Sleep
+      Soon leaves the weary, mortal eye:
+    Go--with his funeral cypress--weep;
+      Thy spirit’s peace is slumbering nigh.
+
+    With thine my mingling tears I’ll bring--
+      Their bitterness he cannot know;--
+    The morning-rose I’ll o’er him fling--
+      He was a rose of morning too.
+
+
+FRAGMENT.
+
+    The waves of Seine have seen the banner,
+      The eagle-banner, floating high;
+    There do the winds of glory fan her,
+      While flap her pinions to the sky.
+
+    Hers was a night of gloom--but morning
+      Has dawn’d on her triumphant flight;
+    And now, all fear and weakness scorning,
+      She soars to liberty and light.
+
+
+
+
+MILONOV.
+
+
+THE FALL OF THE LEAF.
+
+    Th’ autumnal winds had stripp’d the field
+      Of all its foliage, all its green;
+    The winter’s harbinger had still’d
+      That soul of song which cheer’d the scene:
+
+    With visage pale, and tottering gait,
+      As one who hears his parting knell,
+    I saw a youth disconsolate;--
+      He came to breathe his last farewell.
+
+    ‘Thou grove! how dark thy gloom to me,
+      Thy glories riven by autumn’s breath;
+    In every falling leaf I see
+      A threatening messenger of death.
+
+    ‘O Æsculapius! in my ear
+      Thy melancholy warnings chime:
+    Fond youth! bethink thee, thou art here
+      A wanderer--for the last--last time.
+
+    ‘Thy spring will winter’s gloom o’ershade,
+      Ere yet the fields are white with snow;
+    Ere yet the latest flow’rets fade,
+      Thou in thy grave wilt sleep below.
+
+    ‘I hear a hollow murmuring,
+      The cold wind rolling o’er the plain--
+    Alas! the brightest days of spring
+      How swift, how sorrowful, how vain!
+
+    ‘O wave, ye dancing boughs, O wave!
+      Perchance to-morrow’s dawn may see
+    My mother weeping on my grave--
+      Then consecrate my memory.
+
+    ‘I see, with loose, dishevell’d hair,
+      Covering her snowy bosom, come
+    The angel of my childhood there,
+      To dew with tears my early tomb.
+
+    ‘Then in the autumn’s silent eve,
+      With fluttering wing, and gentlest tread,
+    My spirit its calm bed shall leave,
+      And hover o’er the mourner’s head.’
+
+    Then he was silent--faint and slow
+      His steps retraced;--he came no more:
+    The last leaf trembled on the bough--
+      And his last pang of grief was o’er.
+
+    Beneath the aged oaks he sleeps;--
+      The angel of his childhood there
+    No watch around his tombstone keeps.
+      But when the evening stars appear,
+
+    The woodman, to his cottage bound,
+      Close to that grave is wont to tread;
+    But his rude footsteps, echo’d round,
+      Break not the silence of the dead.
+
+
+
+
+MERSLÆKOV.
+
+
+DUETT.
+
+    FIRST VOICE.
+
+    Thus the weeping shepherd spoke,
+    While his heart with anguish broke,
+    To the maiden of his bosom:
+          It can never be!
+
+    I shall see thee smile no more;
+    Thou art rich, and I am poor:
+    Leave me--be serene and happy--
+          To my misery!
+
+    SECOND VOICE.
+
+    Then the youthful shepherdess
+    Heaved a sigh for his distress,
+    Gently utter’d, calm and sorrowing,
+          It can never be?
+
+    Thou art mine--for ever mine;
+    What though poverty be thine?
+    They who have love’s fount of riches
+          Know no poverty!
+
+    FIRST VOICE.
+
+    I am of unhonour’d line,
+    And the world alone--is mine:
+    How the proud, and how the noble
+          Will thy choice reprove!
+
+    SECOND VOICE.
+
+    Slander is their joy--they know
+    Nothing of affection’s glow:
+    Ancestry and pride I seek not--
+          But I seek thy love!
+
+    FIRST VOICE.
+
+    Smiles and joy thy steps await:--
+    Misery is at my gate:
+    Tears are bitter--but most bitter
+          Tears of penitence!
+
+    SECOND VOICE.
+
+    Unpartaken pleasure cloys,
+    But divided woes are joys;
+    Where our common tears are mingled
+          Grief will fly from thence!
+
+
+    FIRST VOICE.
+
+    Corn-flowers and forget-me-not,
+    And narcissus, ne’er I sought;
+    Now I’ll seek the sweetest flow’rets
+          For my smiling fair!
+
+    SECOND VOICE.
+
+    Strange a shepherd’s life to me,
+    Yet a shepherdess I’ll be;
+    Though my father’s rich, I’ll braid thee
+          Garlands for thy hair!
+
+    BOTH.
+
+    Thou hast made life’s burthen lighter,
+    Every star and flower is brighter;
+    Now with thine my heart is blended,
+          Every thought and breath!
+
+    Tears and sorrow, if they come,
+    Shall not wear the garb of gloom;
+    Life with thee is crown’d with beauty--
+          Beautiful is death!
+
+
+
+
+KHOVANSKY.
+
+
+_Ya vechor v lugakh gulyala._
+
+    Through the silent evening hours,
+    Musing on my cares, I roved;
+    And amused me gathering flowers,
+    Forming wreaths for him I loved.
+
+    Pensively I wander’d round,
+    Till the sun had left the plain;
+    Many and many a flower I found,
+    But _one_ flower I sought in vain.
+
+    Through the solitary even
+    Every where that flower I sought;
+    ’Tis a flower as blue as heaven--
+    ’Twas in vain--I found it not.
+
+    Mournful I was homeward going,
+    When--a gentle rivulet nigh,
+    I espied that flow’ret growing--
+    Which I pluck’d in ecstasy.
+
+    Sweet Forget-me-not! elated,
+    Tears express’d my bursting thought,
+    And I sigh’d, and I repeated,
+    O my friend! Forget-me-not!
+
+    Gold and glare to me are dim--
+    He is dearer far than they;
+    They can add no charm to him--
+    ‘Maid! I love thee!’ charmer, say!
+
+
+
+
+NATIONAL SONGS.
+
+
+I.
+
+_Ne golubūshka v’chīstom pōlæ vōrkuet._
+
+    O’er the meadow not a turtle speeds or flutters,
+    And the twilight no dew-drops scatters over:
+    In her chamber a young maiden her griefs utters,
+    As she thinks, drown’d in tears, of her lover:
+    Her bright eyes with bursting sorrow are loaded,
+    Her heart with disappointment has been goaded.
+
+    ‘My beloved! my beloved! my heart’s master!’
+    She cried, in her agony overflowing:
+    Her sighs thicken’d--her tears they hurried faster--
+    ‘O some viper my bosom must be gnawing,
+    Some poison must my life-blood be congealing!--
+    No! thy absence creates this bitter feeling.
+
+    ‘’Tis no traitor, ’tis no false one who has left me,
+    No vile-minded, no polluted, no cold-hearted--
+    How sad was the moment which bereft me--
+    How bitter my sorrow when we parted!
+    When I lost thee all was darkness about me;
+    Life and death are indifferent without thee.
+
+    ‘’Twas not violence fetter’d our affection;
+    ’Twas thy prudence, ’twas thy virtue, that enchain’d me--
+    In thy bosom love and friendship found protection,
+    And the heart that was worthy of me gain’d me:
+    We are pledged not--we are sworn not--for brighter
+    Is the chain of sweet sympathy--and tighter.
+
+    ‘Then return thee, my beloved! and forget not
+    Thou controllest all my joy and all my sorrow;--
+    Think of me, my heart’s confidence! and let not
+    My thoughts any gloomier shadows borrow:
+    ’Tis for thee--’tis for thee _alone_--that I grieve me--
+    Come again, thou sweet spirit! to relieve me.’[1]
+
+
+II.
+
+_Osen blædnaya v polyakh._
+
+    Autumn’s robes are on the mead,
+    Colder blow the breezes cold;
+    Sadness fills the shepherd’s fold,
+    And the cheerful birds are fled.
+    All are fled--ye swains, draw near,
+    All your store of gladness bring:
+    Shepherds--shepherdesses--hear!
+    Gather round me while I sing.
+    Come--the shadowy thatch is o’er ye--
+    Listen to my jealous story.
+
+    Daphne, wandering, chanced to look
+    Towards the wood, and saw, alone,
+    Sporting, his beloved one,
+    Leaning on her pastoral crook;
+    Her light morning garments on--
+    On her hand a wreath she held,
+    Playing with the early sun,
+    In the forest and the field:
+    O, it was a moment meet
+    For a lover’s heart to beat!
+
+    Forward she--he sought the wood
+    Swiftly--not less swift she flew--
+    Harder beat his bosom true--
+    He was left in solitude.
+    Like a rein-deer she is gone,
+    Buried in the thickest shade.
+    ‘Heaven--and faithless, treacherous one!
+    ‘Do I dream?--No!--cruel maid!
+    ‘Some heart’s-robber waits thee there--
+    ‘Wretched man!--deceitful fair!’
+
+    But he reach’d the wood at last,
+    And he hears the rustling boughs,
+    Hides him midst the leaves, and vows
+    That his eagle eye shall blast
+    All her joy--her shame unveil:
+    Then he put the boughs aside,
+    But, as tutor’d to conceal,
+    They rebound, dissatisfied;
+    And he stands, a senseless thing,
+    When he heard his maiden sing:--
+
+    (Gods of heaven! and fiends of hell!
+    Ye, who e’er a heart conferr’d--
+    Ye, who e’er of passion heard--
+    Thunder were less terrible.)
+    ‘Come,’ she said, ‘O come, my dear!
+    Come, thou brightest, sweetest, best!
+    Sport thee with this garland here,
+    Sleep upon my welcoming breast;
+    Dwell, my joy, my pride, with me,
+    And my heart shall dwell with thee.’
+
+    ‘Vile deceiver!--fallen to this!’
+    And the forest echo’d round
+    Laughter, and the gentler sound
+    Of the love-conferring kiss.
+    Through the circling boughs he tears,
+    And, with fury-flashing eyes,
+    Met his maiden pale with fears,
+    And--upon her hand espies
+    A sweet bird that she caress’d,
+    And was fondling in her breast.
+
+    Canst thou, canst thou then forgive
+    He who dared to doubt thy truth?
+    ‘No! forgiveness, erring youth!
+    Ne’er with doubting love can live.’
+    So she spoke--his heart was broken,
+    Veil’d in grief and sunk in shame;
+    Tears, repentance’ bitter token,
+    Fell, but could not quench the flame:
+    So--for love the victory wins--
+    She forgave him all his sins.
+
+
+III.
+
+TO MARY.
+
+    Noisy nightingale! be still,
+    Hear’st thou not the sweeter thrill
+              Of my Mary,
+              Of my fairy,
+    From the cottage? through the trees,
+    Born on breath of western breeze.
+
+    As the skylark from her height,
+    Midst the dews of opening light,
+              Sweetly singeth;
+              Joy upspringeth
+    From the heart that song to hear--
+    So I love thy voice, my dear!
+
+    Turn I towards the window-seat--
+    Give me one soft glance, my sweet!
+              Kind is Mary,
+              Kind my fairy,
+    Joyous as a summer’s day
+    In the mildest smile of May.
+
+    Then her heart its folds unveils,
+    And she sings its secret tales:
+              Gently flowing,
+              Mildly glowing,
+    O how sweetly falls the strain!
+    O how fascinating then!
+
+    When upon her harpsichord
+    Music leads the mournful word,
+              And the spirit
+              Sighs to hear it,
+    Led by her in willing chain--
+    Who was ever like her then?
+
+    Who?--two Marys cannot be.
+    Mary! life’s sweet witchery!
+              Mary! bless me,
+              And caress me:
+    Kings might envy, for thou art,
+    Mary! thou, my heart of heart.
+
+    Peace!--she sighs--thou window fly
+    Open--let me drink her sigh:
+              Glowing, blushing,
+              Thither rushing,
+    Could I steal one rapturous kiss--
+    Sing, sweet bird! thy song of bliss.
+
+
+IV.
+
+_Akh! kabĭ na tzvætĭ ne Morosĭ._
+
+    If the frost nipp’d the flowrets no more,
+    If in winter the flowrets would bloom,
+    If the woes of my spirit were o’er,
+    My spirit should cast off its gloom:
+    I would sit with my sorrow no longer,
+    O’erwatching the dew-covered field.
+    I said to my father already,
+    Already I said to my taper[2],
+    ‘Nay! marry me not, O my father!
+    O marry me not to a proud one!
+    O seek not for high piles of riches,
+    O seek not for palaces fair,
+    ’Tis man, not his palace we dwell in,
+    ’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!’
+    I hurried across the young grass,
+    I threw off my sable fur cloak,
+    Lest its rustling perchance might betray me,
+    Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle--
+    Afraid my stepfather would hear me,
+    And say, ‘she is there,’ to his son--
+    To his son--who is doom’d for my husband.
+
+
+V.
+
+_Akh! kak toshno mnæ toshnen’ko._
+
+    O how gloomy has been to me
+    The year that speeds away,
+    But gloomier than all the rest to me
+    Gloomier than all--to-day!
+    I must forget my meat and drink,
+    And of my lover think.
+    I must no longer idly sleep,
+    But counsel seek, and keep.
+    Counsel--counsel must I seek,
+    And seek it from my lover.
+    Let us, let us now, my hope,
+    Let us live in love;
+    Live in love, while time runs over,
+    Were it but a year,
+    And that year will then appear
+    Like a little day.
+    Fain, my love, I’d live with thee,
+    But the wicked ones,
+    Even our next door neighbours watch
+    With a never-weary eye;
+    Every step they watch,
+    And to father and to mother
+    Tell most lying tales;
+    Such as that the youthful maiden
+    Woke at early hour,
+    Woke at early hour to watch her,
+    Watch her youthful friend;
+    And she stood upon the threshold
+    And her kerchief waved.
+    Truly, she did wave her kerchief
+    To invite her friend.
+    Turn again, my hopes! come hither,
+    Hither to my soul!
+    O thou com’st not!--tell me wherefore,
+    Wherefore art thou hidden?
+    Yes! they call thee, thou my treasure!
+    Thou wilt marry thee.
+    When thou hastenest to the altar,
+    Say farewell! to me.
+    Take away my woe and sorrow
+    From the luckless maid,
+    Bind her woe, and bind her sorrow
+    To thy horse’s mane.
+    Scatter all the maiden’s sorrow
+    O’er the flowerless field;
+    Spring there from the maiden’s sorrow,
+    Fairest grass and turf!
+    Grass and turf from maiden’s sorrow,
+    And the sweetest flowers;
+    All the flowers are brightly red--
+    One more bright than all--
+    One--yes, one is far more bright--
+    O the bright red flower!
+    Many and many a friend I love,
+    One far more than all;
+    One is dearer than the rest--
+    Loved one of my soul!
+
+
+VI.
+
+_Tĭ vosnoi, vosnoi zhavoronochik._
+
+    Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
+    Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!
+
+    In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully,
+    To his father writes--to his mother writes:
+    Thus he wrote--and these--these were the very words:
+    ‘O good father mine--thou beloved sir!
+    O good mother mine--thou beloved dame!
+    Ransom me, I pray--ransom the good lad,
+    He is your beloved--is your only son!’
+    Father--mother--both--both refused to hear,
+    Cursed their hapless race--cursed their hapless seed:
+    ‘Never did a thief our honest name disgrace--
+    Highwayman or thief never stain’d the name.’
+
+    Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
+    Sitting there alone in the green of May!
+
+    From the prison-tower thus the prisoner wrote,
+    Thus the prisoner wrote to his beloved maid:
+    ‘O thou soul of mine! O thou lovely maid!
+    Truest love of mine--sweetest love of mine!
+    Save--O save, I pray--save the prison’d lad!’
+    Swiftly, then, exclaim’d that beloved maid:
+    ‘Come, attendant! come--come my faithful nurse--
+    Servant faithful--you that long have faithful been,
+    Bring the golden key--bring the key with speed--
+    Ope the treasure chests--open them in haste;
+    Golden treasures bring--bring them straight to me:
+    Ransom him, I say--ransom the good lad,
+    He is my beloved--of my heart beloved.’
+
+    Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
+    Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!
+
+
+VII.
+
+_Na boskhodĭ krasna solnĭshka._
+
+    When the lovely sun is mounting high,
+    And the bright moon leaves the morning sky;
+    When no falcon floats upon the air,
+    By the river’s side a youth is seen--
+    Ah! he totters--slowly moving there,
+    His faint eye glides o’er the gardens green,
+    While he holds sad converse with woe and care:
+    Then the little birds awake and greet
+    Bridegroom and bride, in raptures sweet
+    They flap their wings in ecstasy:
+    My turtle!--all--yes! all but thou,
+    Who slumberest in thy chamber now,
+    Nor sighest--nor sendst a thought to me--
+    No! I am banish’d from her dreams--
+    My memory now no longer gleams
+    In her heart--my soul’s bright hours are o’er--
+    Nadesha will be mine no more!
+
+      From her chamber then the maiden sped,
+    And grief was on her cheeks distrest;
+    And her eyes with sorrow’s tears were red,
+    Her arms hung down--she is not dead,
+    For no arrow has transfix’d her breast,
+    And no venomous snake has poison’d her:
+    He would speak--but he was forced to hear:
+    ‘Now fare thee well, thou loving one!
+    My soul!--my father’s best loved son!
+    Last eve I was affianced--
+    Oh! and the guests to-morrow come:
+    They will lead me to God’s holy shrine,
+    Call me another’s--wretched doom!
+    Another’s----but for ever thine.’
+
+
+VIII.
+
+_Akh! daleche v chistom polæ._
+
+
+    Alas! on that plane, distant meadow towers
+    A little tree, whose branches raise them high,
+    And neath those branches grows the emerald grass,
+    And o’er the grass full many a floweret blooms,
+    There many a floweret blooms as blue as heav’n.
+    And on those flowerets was a carpet spread,
+    And on that carpet sat two brothers lone,
+    Two lonely brothers, link’d in strongest love:
+    The elder brother waked the cymbal’s voice,
+    To which the younger’s sweetest hymns were join’d:
+    ‘Two sons, our mother gave us to the world,
+    Our father like two falcons rear’d his boys;
+    He rear’d and fed us--yet he taught us nought--
+    But rear’d us on this wide and foreign land:
+    A wide and foreign land--the town unknown;
+    Wide foreign land--dry even without the wind--
+    Dry without wind, and chilly without frost.
+    Our mother deem’d we never should get free,
+    But we have freed us in this happy hour,
+    And now, O mother! thou wilt find us not.’
+
+
+IX.
+
+_Tĭ dusha moya._
+
+    ‘O thou soul of mine,
+    Gentle maid divine!
+    Thou who didst possess
+    All this heart of mine,
+    Sit not, my love’s light!
+    Watching through the night:
+    Waxen taper now
+    Burn no more, I pray,
+    Wait me now no more
+    Till the break of day!
+    All our hope is over,
+    And betrothed thy lover;
+    And I came to ask
+    For thy last farewell,
+    And my gratitude
+    For past love to tell.’
+
+    Hardly had he spoken,
+    Hardly had he said--
+    Sobbing--spirit-broken--
+    Wept the lovely maid:
+    Melting into tears,
+    Trembling in her fears,
+    Firmly yet she cried:
+    ‘Give me, treacherous thing,
+    Give my golden ring:
+    Take the knife of steel
+    Which thou once hadst given,
+    Let its blade be driven
+    To my heart--and feel
+    How it burnt for thee,
+    While thou murderedst me!’
+
+    ‘Weep not, gentle maid!
+    Weep no more, I pray;
+    I shall often come,
+    Come from day to day:
+    I shall love thee more--
+    Better--than before.’
+    But she wept again,
+    Lovely maid!--she wept,
+    And her tearful eye
+    On the traitor kept.
+    Never is the sun
+    Brighter than in June:
+    Love can never see
+    Twice its burning noon.
+
+
+X.
+
+_Perestan’ stonatæ Kukushechka._
+
+    Listen yet a while, thou cuckoo dear!
+    Call not, call not thou so sadly there!
+    For without thy notes my heart is torn,
+    Sicken’d, and dejected, and forlorn!
+    For the sun his lovely face has shrouded,
+    Frowning sits he in his palace clouded,
+    And the lovely maid is full of grief,
+    And that grief will never find an end--
+    Never find an end--for how can she,
+    How can she forget her bosom’s friend?
+    Not an hour--not even a moment--he,
+    He is present at the dawn of day,
+    At the nightfall--eve--and morning’s ray.
+    O he left the lovely maiden--he
+    Left the maiden for a little week--
+    For a week--but six months sped away--
+    Six long months--’twas an eternity.
+
+
+XI.
+
+_Chernovrovoi, chernoglazoi._
+
+    Hazel-eyebrow’d, hazel-eyed,
+    Thou audacious boy,
+    Why hast thou bewitch’d my heart,
+    And to grief betray’d?
+    Can the summer sun be cold,
+    Can the light be shade,
+    Can the heart exist on earth
+    Uninspired by love?
+    Does the sunshine cease to smile
+    When the floweret fades?
+    Is the heart untouch’d by love
+    When the heart is sad?
+
+    ’Tis no lawless love that dwells
+    In my inner heart:
+    I will fly and seek my mate,
+    Like the bird in spring.
+    I will show him all his gifts,
+    Every kerchief sent;
+    He shall see those kerchiefs steam
+    With my burning tears!
+    On thy bosom dry them, dry
+    Those hot, burning tears;
+    Or commingle them with thine,
+    They will sweeter flow.
+
+    Hear! on the damp hedge a noise,
+    Snow-clouds on the field--
+    Stormy winds are gathering round,
+    Broken is the way.
+    Tarry in thy little cage,
+    O thou gentle bird,
+    Thou canst open not with tears
+    Yonder prison, dear!
+    Tell to thy affianced now
+    Some old tale of joy.
+
+    Never alone should a lovely maid
+    Wander across the field;
+    Never the maiden’s wandering eye
+    Should the handsome swains pursue;
+    Never the maid should dare to love,
+    To love the handsome swain:
+    But the maid should watch her tender heart
+    With ever-present care.
+
+
+XII.
+
+_Pover’kh dubchika._
+
+    On an oak there sate
+    A turtle with his mate--
+    There in amorous meeting
+    One another greeting,
+    Each with flapping wing
+    All its joy repeating.
+    Swift a vulture sprung,
+    Eagle-eyed and young,
+    And he bore away
+    That poor turtle gray--
+    That poor turtle gray,
+    With his ruby feet,
+    On the oak-tree wood
+    Spilt the turtle’s blood:
+    All the plumage soft
+    O’er the meadow driven;
+    All his down aloft
+    Borne by winds of heaven.
+
+    O how desolate
+    Sat the mourning mate;
+    How she groan’d and sigh’d
+    While her turtle died.
+    ‘Weep not--why complain,
+    Little turtle, love?’
+    Said the vulture then
+    To the widow’d dove,
+    ‘O’er the azure sea
+    I will bring to thee
+    Flocks of turtles, where
+    Thou shalt choose thy dear,
+    Choose thy lover sweet,
+    Choose the brightest, best,
+    With a fair gray breast,
+    And with ruby feet.’
+
+    ‘Fly not, murderous bird!
+    O’er the azure sea!’
+    Thus the dove was heard
+    Answering mournfully:
+    ‘Bring no flocks to me
+    O’er the azure sea;
+    Can their presence be
+    Comfort to my breast?
+    Will they bring to me
+    The father of my nest?’
+
+
+XIII.
+
+_Tĭ prokodish’ dorogaja._
+
+    Ah! thou hurriest by the convent,
+          My beloved one!
+    Ah! the convent where the wretched monk
+          Lives despairing.
+    ’Twas by force he was conducted here,
+          And devoted!
+    O remove this hood, my dearest one,
+          O remove it!
+    Take away this frock, my fairest one,
+          I beseech thee.
+    Lay thy soft--O lay thy snowy hand
+          On my bosom;
+    Feel my heart--how my throbbing heart
+          Beats and trembles
+    With the flowing blood entangled,
+          Deeply sighing!
+    From thy countenance of gladness
+          Tears of sorrow
+    Drop! Come, contemplate with pity
+          My fate’s darkness;
+    I will ask not for forgiveness
+          Of my errors,
+    But that thou mayst love me--love me,
+          Thou, my angel!
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+  LONDON:
+  PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] The versification of the above song is so singular, and at first
+sight involved, that I doubted if I ought to preserve it. It is not
+without harmony, and, when the accent is caught, it will, I imagine, be
+deemed musical.
+
+    ˘ ˘ ¯ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯ ˘,
+    ˘ ˘ ¯ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘
+
+
+[2] Taper burning before a saint.
+
+
+
+
+_Just published_,
+
+BY THE SAME AUTHOR,
+
+ MATINS AND VESPERS,
+ WITH
+ HYMNS AND OCCASIONAL DEVOTIONAL PIECES.
+
+PRICE 6_s._
+
+PUBLISHED BY G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, AVE-MARIA LANE; AND ROWLAND
+HUNTER, ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.
+
+
+ALSO,
+
+ DETAILS
+ OF THE
+ ARREST, IMPRISONMENT, AND LIBERATION
+ OF
+ _AN ENGLISHMAN_,
+ BY THE BOURBON GOVERNMENT OF FRANCE.
+
+PRICE 4_s._
+
+
+
+
+ WORKS
+ RECENTLY PUBLISHED
+ BY G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER,
+ _AVE-MARIA LANE_.
+
+
+SPECIMENS of the RUSSIAN POETS. Translated by JOHN BOWRING, F.L.S., and
+Honorary Member of several Foreign Societies: with Biographical and
+Critical Notices. Second Edition, with Additions, 12mo. Vol. I. price
+7s. boards.
+
+
+An HISTORICAL REVIEW of the SPANISH REVOLUTION; including some Account
+of Religion, Manners, and Literature in Spain. By EDWARD BLAQUIERE,
+Esq. Author of “Letters from the Mediterranean,” &c.--In One thick
+Volume, 8vo. illustrated with a Map, price 18s. boards.
+
+  “It is impossible to peruse this volume without feelings of the most
+  affecting and irresistible nature. The proudest deed to which a human
+  being can aspire is to put his hand to such a work as this; and, in
+  the belief that Mr. Blaquiere’s labours are calculated materially to
+  promote its success, we congratulate him in the devotion of his time
+  and thoughts to so noble an object.”--_Monthly Mag. Sept. 1822._
+
+  “The affairs of the country to which Europe is indebted for its
+  liberation from the dominion of Napoleon, and the recent example of
+  political freedom, acquire every day an increased interest with all
+  liberal Englishmen. No complete account, however, of the _Spanish
+  Revolution_ was in possession of the public, till the above work of
+  Mr. Blaquiere made its appearance. It is written with much spirit and
+  animation, and a zeal for truth is one of its most characteristic
+  features.”--_Morning Chronicle, Sept. 13, 1822._
+
+  “A Work has just been published, entitled _An Historical Review
+  of the Spanish Revolution_. None can find fault with the author’s
+  selection of his subject; and he has executed his task in a manner
+  not unworthy of it. This book contains much and various information,
+  entirely new to the public.”--_British Press, Sept. 11, 1822._
+
+  “The Work before us affords ample proof that its author is possessed
+  of powers of research, and of acute observation. The limits and
+  nature of our work prevent our doing more than passing a favorable
+  judgment, and giving this general outline of the design and execution
+  of Mr. Blaquiere’s volume; but there is no class of readers who
+  can peruse the work without an acquisition of valuable knowledge,
+  or without its awakening a train of the most useful and pleasurable
+  reflections.”--_European Magazine, Nov. 1822._
+
+  “We certainly want such books as that now before us: we do not know
+  enough of the most interesting events of which it treats; at least,
+  we have seldom been called upon to look at them through so impartial
+  and national a medium as Mr. Blaquiere’s Review.”--_Literary
+  Register, Sept. 7, 1822._
+
+  “Mr. Blaquiere’s former productions have established for him an
+  honourable place in English literature; and the ardent spirit of
+  integrity, and love of right, which breathes through the present
+  pages, entitle him to considerable distinction as a philanthropist,
+  while their composition do him great credit as an author.”--_Paris
+  Monthly Review, Nov. 1822._
+
+
+ANECDOTES of the SPANISH and PORTUGUESE REVOLUTIONS. By Count PECCHIO,
+an Italian Exile. With an Introduction and Notes. By EDWARD BLAQUIERE,
+Esq. Author of “Letters from the Mediterranean,” “An Historical Review
+of the Spanish Revolution,” &c. With a striking Likeness of General
+Riego. 8vo. price 7s. 6d. boards.
+
+  ⁂ Proof Impressions of the Portrait may be had separate, price 2s. 6d.
+
+
+JOURNAL of a TOUR in FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, and ITALY, during the Years
+1819, 20, and 21. By MARIANNE COLSTON. In Two Volumes, 8vo. price 1_l._
+1s. boards.
+
+
+ALSO,
+
+
+FIFTY LITHOGRAPHIC PRINTS, illustrative of the above Tour, from
+Original Drawings taken in Italy, the Alps, and the Pyrenees. By
+MARIANNE COLSTON. Large folio. 2_l._ boards.
+
+
+JOURNAL of a VOYAGE to GREENLAND, in the Year 1821. With Graphic
+Illustrations. By G. W. MANBY, Esq. Second Edition, 8vo. 10s. 6d.
+boards.
+
+  “Some of Captain Manby’s descriptions of the dreadful beauties of
+  the Frozen Ocean are very happy; and his numerous plates of the
+  fantastic shapes assumed by the frozen atmosphere and waters are
+  worthy of attention. We recommend a perusal of the work, as combining
+  much information with very considerable entertainment.”--_European
+  Magazine, Oct. 1822._
+
+
+RECOLLECTIONS of a CLASSICAL TOUR through various Parts of GREECE,
+TURKEY, and ITALY, made in the Years 1818 and 1819. By PETER EDMUND
+LAURENT. Illustrated with coloured Plates. Two Volumes 8vo. 18s. boards.
+
+  “From the limited size of Mr. Laurent’s Work, he has necessarily
+  written with great brevity, yet he has a good taste in the choice of
+  his subjects: he intersperses classical and antiquarian research with
+  acute reflections and interesting portraits of existing manners; and
+  we consider his Work a valuable addition to the information already
+  known respecting those interesting portions of the globe--Greece,
+  Turkey, and Italy.”--_Literary Chronicle, June 2, 1821._
+
+
+The LIFE and OPINIONS of SIR RICHARD MALTRAVERS, an English Gentleman
+of the Seventeenth Century. In Two Volumes, post 8vo. price 16s. boards.
+
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+  and the domination of the old feudal barons; with a qualified
+  predilection for popular rights and public freedom.--The original
+  tone of thinking of these volumes cannot but cause them to be much
+  read.”--_Monthly Magazine, 1822._
+
+
+A COLLECTION of POEMS on Various Subjects, from the Pen of HELEN MARIA
+WILLIAMS: with some Remarks on the present State of Literature in
+France. In Octavo, price 12s. boards.
+
+
+The LUCUBRATIONS of HUMPHREY RAVELIN, Esq. late Major in the * * * *
+Regiment of Infantry. In Octavo, price 12s. boards.
+
+
+DECEMBER TALES. In One neat Volume, foolscap, price 5s. 6d. boards.
+
+
+SEQUEL to an UNFINISHED MANUSCRIPT of HENRY KIRK WHITE, designed to
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+Close of Life. By the Author of _The Wonders of the Vegetable Kingdom
+displayed_, &c. Foolscap, price 4s. boards.
+
+
+The PEERAGE CHART for 1823. Corrected to the present Time. This
+Chart contains the complete _Peerages_ of the _United Kingdom_,
+alphabetically arranged, with the following particulars of each
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+
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+  _Gentleman’s Magazine_, _Literary Chronicle_, &c. &c.
+
+
+The SECRETARY’S ASSISTANT; exhibiting the various and most correct
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+and Consuls. Also, the Forms necessary to be used in Applications
+or Petitions to the King in Council, Houses of Lords and Commons,
+Government Offices, Public Companies, &c. &c. By the Author of the
+Peerage Chart, &c. Price 5s. extra boards. Second edition.
+
+  “This work will prove highly useful to young correspondents, and even
+  afford information to those whose avocations or connexions require
+  their occasional correspondence with persons of superior rank. The
+  compiler seems to have used considerable diligence in ensuring
+  accuracy.”--_Gentleman’s Magazine._
+
+  “This little work is a desirable appendage to the writing-desk, and
+  fully enables its possessor to fulfil the precepts delivered to us in
+  the Scriptures:--‘Give unto every man his proper title, lest he be
+  offended, and ye betray your ignorance.’”--_New Monthly Magazine._
+
+  “The Secretary’s Assistant is an infallible guide, and we give it our
+  hearty recommendation.”--_Literary Chronicle._
+
+
+VALPERGA; or, The LIFE and ADVENTURES of CASTRUCCIO, PRINCE of LUCCA.
+By the Author of Frankenstein. In Three Volumes, 12mo. price 21s.
+boards.
+
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+  ardently admired; and we venture to prophesy that it will maintain
+  its station upon the favourite shelf of every good library, when
+  thousands of works of a similar description, that have had some
+  popularity, shall have sunk into eternal oblivion.”
+
+
+HIGHWAYS and BYWAYS; or, TALES of the ROAD-SIDE, picked up in the
+French Provinces. By a WALKING GENTLEMAN. Octavo, price 13s. boards.
+
+
+A HISTORY of ANCIENT INSTITUTIONS, CUSTOMS, and INVENTIONS; selected
+and abridged from the Beytrage zur Geschichte der Eraudungen of
+Professor BECKMANN, of the University of Gottingen. With various
+important Additions. In Two Volumes, 12mo. price 15s. boards.
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ ‣ The spellings of “Ostiak” and “Ostjak” from the original have been
+   standardized to the modern “Ostyak”.
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78745 ***