32. I have given only one example, though there is hardly a volume of English poetry, with the possible exception of those of Burns, which does not furnish dozens of examples. If I give only one, it is because I have in mind Æsop's lioness, who gave such smart reply when chided for giving birth to only one young....
33. There is, indeed, one poet in the English language whose pages throb with sentiment, and who is moreover singularly free from that literary vice which I have called insincerity of imagination; in purity of pictures, in simplicity of sentiment, Goldsmith is unsurpassed in any tongue, but Goldsmith was not an Anglo-Saxon. And even Macaulay's great praise of "The Traveller" has not been sufficient to give it a place ofauthorityamong readers. The persons that read "The Traveller" once a year, as such a possession for all times should be read by rational readers, are very few.
34. From what I have designated as the first characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race—its rhetorical quality—springs the second, which I have designated as the superficiality of sentiment; since the rhetorician needs no depth, and when he does need it, he needs it only for the moment. And from this same rhetorical quality springs the third characteristic of English writers which appears in literature as a vice. I mean their comparative lack of the sense of form, of measuredness, literary temperance,—the want, in short, of theartisticsense. For architectural proportion, with beginning, middle, and end in proper relation, English poets have but little respect, and it ishere that Pushkin is again master. It is the essence of poetry, that which makes itnot-prose, that it is intense; but intensity to produce its effect must be short-lived. Prolonged, like a stimulant, it ceases to act. Hence, one of the first laws of poetry is that the presentation of its scenes, emotions, episodes, be brief. Against this law the sins in English literature among its masters are innumerable. Take, for instance, the manner in which Pushkin, on the one hand, and English poets, on the other, treat an object which has ever affected men with poetic emotion.
35. Many are the English poets who have tried their voices in singing of birds; Wordsworth's lines to the Skylark, the Green Linnet, the Cuckoo, Shelley's piece "To a Skylark," Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale," Bryant's "Lines to a Waterfowl," attest sufficiently the inspiration which tender birdie hath for the soul of man. Now read these in the light of Pushkin's twenty lines called "The Birdlet." Bryant alone, it seems to me, holds his own by the side of Pushkin. Shelley and Keats are lengthy to weariness; and Wordsworth is almost painfully tame. What thoughtlet or emotionlet these are stirred with at the sight of birdie is like a babe in the swaddling-clothesof fond, but inexperienced parents, suffocated in its wrappage.
36. This measuredness Pushkin displays best in his narrative poems. His storymoves.His "Delibash" is the finest example of rapidity of execution combined with fidelity of skill. And the vividness of his stories in "The Drowned," "The Roussalka," and "The Cossak," is due not so much to the dramatic talent Pushkin doubtless possessed as to the sense of proportion which saved him from loading his narrative with needless detail. Gray's "Elegy," for instance, matchless in its beauty, is marred by the needless appendage of the youth himself. This part of the poem seemspatched onWordsworth's "Lucy Gray" seems to justify Goldsmith's bold metaphor,—for it does drag a lengthening chain at each remove. Longfellow's "Prelude" has like "Sartor Resartus" a most unwieldy apparatus for getting ready. The poet there is ever ready to say something, but hardly says it even at the end. And even Tennyson, who at one time did know what it was to keep fine poise in such matters, is frequently guilty of this merely getting ready to say his say.
37. These, then, are the three great virtues of Pushkin's poems: They have sincereimagination, which means pure taste; they have true sentiment, which means pure depth; they have true measure, which means pure art. Pushkin has many more virtues which are common to all great poets; but of these three I thought necessary to speak in detail.
MON PORTRAIT.
X. 35.[1]
Vous me demandez mon portrait,Mais peint d'après nature:Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait,Quoique en miniature.Je sais un jeune polissonEncore dans les classes:Point sot, je le dis sans façonEt sans fades grimaces.One, il ne fut de babillard,Ni docteur de SorbonnePlus ennuyeux et plus braillardQue moi-même en personne.Ma taille à celle des plus longsElle n'est point égalée;J'ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds,Et la tête bouclée.J'aime et le monde, et son fracas,Je hais la solitude;J'abhorre et noises et débats,Et tant soit peu l'étude.Spectacles, bals me plaisent fort,Et d'après ma penséeJe dirais ce que j'aime encore,Si je n'étais au lycée.Après cela, mon cher ami,L'on peut me reconnaître:Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit,Je veux toujours paraître.Vrai demon pour l'espièglerie,Vrai singe par sa mine,Beaucoup et trop d'étourderie,—Ma foi—voilà Poushkine.
[1]See Preface, § 1.
[1]See Preface, § 1.
MY PEDIGREE.IV. 66.With scorning laughter at a fellow writer,In a chorus the Russian scribesWith name of aristocrat me chide:Just look, if please you ... nonsense what!Court Coachman not I, nor assessor,Nor am I nobleman by cross;No academician, nor professor,I'm simply of Russia a citizen.Well I know the times' corruption,And, surely, not gainsay it shall I:Our nobility but recent is:The more recent it, the more noble 't is.But of humbled races a chip,And, God be thanked, not aloneOf ancient Lords am scion I;Citizen I am, a citizen!Not in cakes my grandsire traded,Not a prince was newly-baked he;Nor at church sang he in choir,Nor polished he the boots of Tsar;Was not escaped a soldier heFrom the German powdered ranks;How then aristocrat am I to be?God be thanked, I am but a citizen.My grandsire Radsha in warlike serviceTo Alexander Nefsky was attached.The Crowned Wrathful, Fourth Ivan,His descendants in his ire had spared.About the Tsars the Pushkins moved;And more than one acquired renown,When against the Poles battling wasOf Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain.When treason conquered was and falsehood,And the rage of storm of war,When the Romanoffs upon the throneThe nation called by its Chart—We upon it laid our hands;The martyr's son then favored us;Time was, our race was prized,But I ... am but a citizen obscure.Our stubborn spirit us tricks has played;Most irrepressible of his race,With Peter my sire could not get on;And for this was hung by him.Let his example a lesson be:Not contradiction loves a ruler,Not all can be Prince Dolgorukys,Happy only is the simple citizen.My grandfather, when the rebels roseIn the palace of Peterhof,Like Munich, faithful he remainedTo the fallen Peter Third;To honor came then the Orloffs,But my sire into fortress, prison—Quiet now was our stern race,And I was born merely—citizen.Beneath my crested sealThe roll of family charts I've kept;Not running after magnates new,My pride of blood I have subdued;I'm but an unknown singerSimply Pushkin, not Moussin,My strength is mine, not from court:I am a writer, a citizen.MY MONUMENT.IV. 23.A monument not hand-made I have for me erected;The path to it well-trodden will not overgrow;Risen higher has it with unbending headThan the monument of Alexander.No! not all of me shall die! my soul in hallowed lyreShall my dust survive, and escape destruction—And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sublunarOne bard at least living shall remain.My name will travel over the whole of Russia great,And there pronounce my name shall every living tongue:The Slav's proud scion, and the Finn, and the savage yetTungus, and the Calmuck, lover of the steppe.And long to the nation I shall be dear:For rousing with my lyre its noble feelings.For extolling freedom in a cruel age,For calling mercy upon the fallen.The bidding of God, O Muse, obey.Fear not insult, ask not crown:Praise and blame take with indifferenceAnd dispute not with the fool!August, 1836.MY MUSE.IV. 1.In the days of my youth she was fond of me,And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me.To me with smile she listened; and already gentlyAlong the openings echoing of the woodsWas playing I with fingers tender:Both hymns solemn, god-inspiredAnd peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd.From morn till night in oak's dumb shadowTo the strange maid's teaching intent I listened;And with sparing reward me gladdeningTossing back her curls from her forehead dear,From my hands the flute herself she took.Now filled the wood was with breath divineAnd the heart with holy enchantment filled.1823.MY DEMON.IV. 107.In those days when new to me wereOf existence all impressions:—The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper,The song of nightingale at night;When the sentiments elevatedOf Freedom, glory and of love,And of art the inspirationStirred deeply so my blood:—My hopeful hours and joyfulWith melancholy sudden dark'ningA certain evil spirit thenBegan in secret me to visit.Grievous were our meetings,His smile, and his wonderful glance,His speeches, these so stingingCold poison poured into my soul.Providence with slanderInexhaustible he tempted;Of Beauty as a dream he spakeAnd inspiration he despised;Nor love, nor freedom trusted he,On life with scorn he looked—And nought in all natureTo bless he ever wished.1823.REGRET.IV. 76.Not ye regret I, of spring my years,In dreams gone by of hopeless love;Not ye regret I, O mysteries of nights.By songstress passionate celebrated;Not ye, regret I, O my faithless friendsNor crowns of feasts, nor cups of circle,Nor ye regret I, O traitresses young—To pleasures melancholy stranger am I.But where are ye, O moments tenderOf young my hopes, of heartfelt peace?The former heat and grace of inspiration?Come again, O ye, of spring my years!REMINISCENCE.IV. 96.When noisy day to mortals quiet grows,And upon the city's silent wallsNight's shadow half-transparent lies,And Sleep, of daily toils reward,—Then for me are dragging in the silenceOf wearying wakefulness the hours.In the sloth of night more scorching burnMy heart's serpents' gnawing fangs;Boil my thoughts; my soul with grief oppressedFull of reveries sad is thronged.Before me memory in silenceIts lengthy roll unfolds.And with disgust my life I readingTremble I and curse it.Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed,But wash away the lines of grief I cannot.In laziness, in senseless feastsIn the craziness of ruinous license,In thraldom, poverty, and homeless desertsMy wasted years there I behold.Of friends again I hear the treacherous greetingGames amid of love and wine.To the heart again insults bringsIrrepressible the cold world.No joy for me,—and calmly before meOf visions young two now rise:Two tender shades, two angels meGiven by fate in the days of yore.But both have wings and flaming swords,And they watch—... and both are vengeant,And both to me speak with death tongueOf Eternity's mysteries, and of the grave.1828.ELEGY.IV. 85.My wishes I have survived,My ambition I have outgrown!Left only is my smart,The fruit of emptiness of heart.Under the storm of cruel FateFaded has my blooming crown!Sad I live and lonely,And wait: Is nigh my end?Thus touched by the belated frost,When storm's wintry whistle is heard,On the branch bare and loneTrembles the belated leaf.1821.RESURRECTION.IV. 116.With sleepy brush the barbarian artistThe master's painting blackens;And thoughtlessly his wicked drawingOver it he is daubing.But in years the foreign colorsPeal off, an aged layer:The work of genius is 'gain before us,With former beauty out it comes.Thus my failings vanish tooFrom my wearied soul,And again within it visions rise,Of my early purer days.1819THE PROPHET.IV. 19.Tormented by the thirst for the spiritI was dragging myself in a sombre desert,And a six-winged seraph appearedUnto me on the parting of the roads.With fingers as light as a dreamMine eyes he touched:And mine eyes opened wiseLike the eyes of a frightened eagle;He touched mine ears,And they filled with din and ringing.And I heard the trembling of the heavensAnd the flight of the angel's wings,And the creeping of the polyps in the sea,And the growth of the vine in the valley.And he took hold of my lips,And out he tore my sinful tongueWith its empty and false speech.And the fang of the wise serpentBetween my terrified lips he placedWith bloody hand.And ope he cut with sword my breast,And out he took my trembling heart,And a coal with flaming blazeInto the opened breast he shoved.Like a corpse I lay in the desert.And the voice of God unto me called:Arise, O prophet, and listen, and guide.Be thou filled with my will,And going over land and seaFire with the word the hearts of men!1826.
THE OUTCAST.III. 5.On a rainy autumn eveningInto desert places went a maid;And the secret fruit of unhappy loveIn her trembling hands she held.All was still: the hills and the woodsAsleep in the darkness of the night.And her searching glancesIn terror about she cast.And on this babe, the innocent,Her glance she paused with a sigh:Asleep thou art, my child, my grief.Thou knowest not my sadness.Thine eyes will ope, and tho' with longing,To my breast shalt no more cling.No kiss for thee to-morrowFrom thine unhappy mother.Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,My everlasting shame, my guilt!Me forget thou shalt for aye,But thee forget shall not I.Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers,Who 'll say: Thou art none of ours!Thou wilt ask, Where are my parents?But for thee no kin is found!Hapless one! With heart filled with sorrow,Lonely amid thy mates,Thy spirit sullen to the end,Thou shalt behold fondling mothers.A lonely wanderer everywhereCursing thy fate at all times,Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear....Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!Asleep! let me then, O hapless oneTo my bosom press thee once for all.A law unjust and terribleThee and me to sorrow dooms.While the years have not yet chasedThe guiltless joy of thy days,Sleep, my darling, let no griefs bitterMar thy childhood's quiet life!But lo! behind the woods, near byThe moon brings a hut to light.Forlorn, pale, and tremblingTo the doors nigh she came.She stooped and gently laid she downThe babe on the threshold strange.In terror away her eyes she turnedAnd in the dark night disappeared.1814.THE BLACK SHAWL.III. 83.I gaze demented on the black shawlAnd my cold soul is torn by grief.When young I was and full of trustI passionately loved a young Greek girl.The charming maid, she fondled me,But soon I lived the black day to see.Once as were gathered my jolly guestsA detested Jew knocked at my door.Thou art feasting (he whispered) with friendsBut betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid.Moneys I gave him and curses,And called my servant the faithful.We went: I flew on the wings of my steed;And tender mercy was silent in me.Her threshold no sooner I espiedDark grew my eyes, and my strength departed.The distant chamber I enter alone,An Armenian embraces my faithless maid.Darkness around me; flashed the dagger;To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time.And long I trampled the headless corpse,—And silent and pale at the maid I stared.I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,But perished the girl, and with her my love.The shawl I took from the head now deadAnd wiped in silence the bleeding steel.When came the darkness of eve, my serfThrew their bodies into the Danube's billows—Since then I kiss no charming eyes,Since then I know no cheerful days.I gaze demented on the black shawl,And my cold soul is torn by grief.1820.THE ROUSSALKA.III. 71.By a lake once in forest darknessA monk his soul was saving,Ever in stern occupationOf prayer, fast, and labor.Already with slackened shovelThe aged man his grave was digging,And only for death in peace and quietTo his saintly patrons prayed he.Once in summer at the thresholdOf his drooping little hutTo God was praying the hermit.Darker grew the forest.Over the lake was rising fog.And in the clouds the reddish moonWas gently rolling along the sky.Upon the waters the hermit gazed.He looks, and fears, and knows not why,Himself he cannot understand....Now he sees: the waves are seethingAnd suddenly again are quiet....Suddenly ... as light as shade of night,As white as early snow of hills,Out cometh a woman nakedAnd on the shore herself she seats.Upon the aged monk she gazesAnd she combs her moistened tresses—The holy monk with terror trembles,Upon her charms still he gazes;With her hand to him she beckonsAnd her head she's quickly nodding....And suddenly like a falling starThe dreamy wave she vanished under.The sober monk, all night he slept not,And all day he prayed notThe shadow unwittingly before himOf the wondrous maid he ever sees.Again the forest is clad in darkness,Along the clouds the moon is sailing.Again the maid above the water,Pale and splendent there she sits.Gaze her eyes, nods her head,Throws kisses, and she's sporting,The wave she sprinkles, and she frolics;Child-like weeping now and laughing;Sobbing tender—the monk she calls:Monk, O monk, to me, to me!Into the waves transparent she dashes;And again is all in silence deep.But on the third day the roused hermitThe enchanted shores nigh sitting was,And the beautiful maid he awaited.Upon the trees were falling shades....Night at last by dawn was chased—And nowhere monk could be found,His beard alone, the gray oneIn the water the boys could see.1819.THE COSSAK.III. 14.Once at midnight hour,Darkness thro' and fog,Quiet by the riverRode a Cossak brave.Black his cap upon his ear,Dust-covered is his coat,By his knee the pistols hangAnd nigh the ground his sword.The faithful steed, rein not feelingIs walking slowly on,(Long its mane is, and is waving)Ever further it keeps on.Now before him two—three huts:Broken is the fence;To the village here the road,To the forest there."Not in forest maid is found,"Dennis thinks, the brave."To their chambers went the maids;Are gone for the night."The son of Don he pulls the reinAnd the spur he strikes:Like an arrow rushed the steed—To the huts he turned.In the clouds the distant skyWas silvering the moon;A Beauty-Maid in melancholyBy the window sits.Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid,Beats his heart within:Gently steed to left, to left—Under the window now is he."Darker growing is the nightAnd hidden is the moon;Quick, my darling, do come out,Water give my steed.""No, not unto a man so young;Right fearful't is to go;Fearful't is my house to leave,And water give thy steed.""Have no fear, O Beauty-Maid,And friendship close with me"—"Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids,""Fear me not, O joy of mine!"Trust me, dear, thy fear is vain,Away with terror groundless!Time thou losest precious,Fear not, O my darling!Mount my steed; with thee I willTo distant regions gallop;Blest with me be thou shalt,Heaven with mate is everywhere."And the maid? Over she bends,Her fear is overcome,Bashfully to ride consents,And the Cossak happy is.Off they dart, away they fly;Are loving one another.Faithful he for two brief weeks,Forsook her on the third.1815.THE DROWNED.IV. 185.Into the hut the children run,In haste they called their father:"Papa, papa, oh, our netsOut a corpse have dragged.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye little devils"Upon them father grumbled."I declare, those wicked brats!Corpse now too have they must!"Down will come the court, 'Give answer!'And for an age no rest from it.But what to do? Heigh, wife, there,My coat give me, must get there somehow....Now where's the corpse?"—"Here, papa, here!"And in truth along the river,Where is spread the moistened net,Upon the sand is seen the corpse.Disfigured terribly the corpse is,Is blue, and all is swollen.Is it a hapless sorrower,Who ruined has his sinful soul,Or by the waves a fisher taken,Or some fellow, drunkard,Or by robbers stripped, perchance,Trader some, unbusinesslike?To the peasant, what is this?About he looks and hastens....Seizes he the body drowned,By the feet to water drags it,And from the shore the windingOff he pushes it with oarDownward 'gain floats the corpse,And grave, and cross still is seeking.And long the dead among the waves,As if living, swinging, floated;With his eyes the peasant himHomeward going, followed."Ye little dogs, now follow me,Each of you a cake shall have;But look ye out, and hold your tongues!Else a thrashing shall ye have."At night the wind to blow beganFull of waves became the river;Out the light was already goingIn the peasant's smoky hut.The children sleep; the mother slumbers.On the oven husband lies.Howls the storm; a sudden knockingHe hears of some one at the window."Who's there?"—"Ope the door I say!""Time eno'; what is the matter?Wherefore comes tramp at night?By the devil art hither brought!Wherefore with you should I bother?Crowded my house and dark is."So saying, he with lazy handOpen throws the window.Rolls the moon from behind the clouds—And now? A naked man before him stands;From his beard a stream is flowingHis glance is fixed, and is open.All about him is frightful dumbnessAnd his hands are dropped down;And to the puffed-out, swollen bodyBlack crabs are fastened.The peasant quickly shuts the window;He recognized his naked guest,Is terror-struck. "May you burst!"Out he whispered and trembled.In great confusion now his thoughts are,And all night he shakes in fever;And till the morrow still the knocking'S heard on the window and at the gates.Report there was among the people:Saying, since then every yearWaiting is the hapless peasantFor his guest on the appointed day.In the morning the weather changesAnd at night the storm arrives,And the dead man is ever knockingBy the window, and at the gates.1828.
THE BIRDLET.I. 171.God's birdlet knowsNor care, nor toil;Nor weaves it painfullyAn everlasting nest.Thro' the long night on the twig it slumbers;When rises the red sunBirdie listens to the voice of GodAnd it starts, and it sings.When Spring, Nature's Beauty,And the burning summer have passed,And the fog, and the rain,By the late fall are brought,Men are wearied, men are grieved,But birdie flies into distant lands,Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea:Flies away until the spring.1824.THE CLOUD.IV. 95.O last cloud of the scattered storm,Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;Alone thou bringest the shadow sombre,Alone thou marrest the joyful day.Thou but recently had'st encircled the skyWhen sternly the lightning was winding about thee;Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder,With rain hast watered the parched earth.Enough! Hie thyself: thy time hath passed:Earth is refreshed; the storm hath fled;And the breeze, fondling the trees' leavesForth thee chases from the quieted heavens!1835.THE NORTH WIND.IV. 94.Why, O wrathful north wind, thouThe marshy shrub dost downward bend?Why thus in the distant sky-vaultWrathfully the cloud dost chase?The black clouds but recentlyHad spread the whole heavens o'er,The oak on hill top but recentlyIn beauty wondrous itself was priding.Thou hast risen, and up hast played,With terror resounded, and with splendor—And away are driven the stormy clouds;Down is hurled the mighty oak.Let now then the sun's clear faceWith joy henceforth ever shine,With the clouds now the zephyr play,And the bush in quiet sway.1824.WINTER MORNING.IV. 164.Frost and sun—the day is wondrous!Thou still art slumbering, charming friend.'Tis time, O Beauty, to awaken:Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed,To meet the Northern Dawn of MorningThyself a north-star do thou appear!Last night, remember, the storm scolded,And darkness floated in the clouded sky;Like a yellow, clouded spotThro' the clouds the moon was gleaming,—And melancholy thou wert sitting—But now ... thro' the window cast a look:Stretched beneath the heavens blueCarpet-like magnificent,In the sun the snow is sparkling;Dark alone is the wood transparent,And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir,And under the ice the rivulet sparkles.Entire is lighted with diamond splendorThy chamber ... with merry crackleThe wood is crackling in the oven.To meditation invites the sofa.But know you? In the sleigh not order whyThe brownish mare to harness?Over the morning snow we glidingTrust we shall, my friend, ourselvesTo the speed of impatient steed;Visit we shall the fields forsaken,The woods, dense but recently,And the banks so dear to me.1829.WINTER EVENING.IV. 166.The storm the sky with darkness covers,The snowy whirlings twisting;Like a beast wild now is howling,Like an infant now is crying;Over the aged roof now suddenIn the straw it rustling is;Like a traveller now belatedFor entrance at our window knocking.With melancholy and with darknessOur little, aged hut is filledWhy in silence then thou sittestBy the window, wife old mine?Or by the howling storms artWearied thou, O companion mine?Or perchance art slumbering,By the rustling spindle soothed?Let us drink, O kindly friendOf my poverty and youth,Away with grief,—where is the cup?Joy it shall bring to our heart.A song now sing me, how the birdBeyond the sea in quiet lived;A song now sing me, how the maidenIn the morning for water went.The storm the sky with darkness covers,The snowy whirlings twisting;Like a beast wild now is howling,Like an infant now is crying.Let us drink, O kindly friendOf my poverty and youth,Away with grief,—where is the cupJoy it shall bring to our heart!1826.THE WINTER-ROAD.IV. 161.Breaking thro' the waving fogsForth the moon is coming,And on the gloomy acresShe gloomy light is shedding.Along the wintry, cheerless roadFlies the rapid troikaThe little bell monotonousWearily is tinkling.A certain homefulness is heardIn the driver's lengthy lays:Now light-hearted carelessness,Now low-spirited sadness.Neither light, nor a dark hut ...Only snow and silence....Striped mileposts are aloneThe travellers who meet us.Sad I feel and weary.... On the morrow, Nina,To my beloved I returningForget myself shall by the fireAnd scarce eno' at her shall gaze.Loudly of my watch the springIts measured circle is completingAnd us the parter of the wearied,Midnight, not shall separate.Sad I'm, Nina; my journey's weary;Slumbering now, my driver is quietThe little bell is monotonousAnd darkened now is the moon's face.1826.
THE STORM-[MAID].IV. 146.Hast thou seen on the rock the maid,In robe of white above the waves,When seething in the storm darkPlayed the sea with its shores,—When the glare of lightning hourlyWith rosy glimmer her lighted up,And the wind beating and flappingStruggled with her flying robe?Beautiful's the sea in the storm dark,Glorious is the sky even without its blueBut trust me: on the rock the maidExcels both wave, and sky, and storm.1825.THE BARD.III. 43.Have ye heard in the woods the nightly voiceOf the bard of love, of the bard of his grief?When the fields in the morning hour were still,The flute's sad sound and simpleHave ye heard?Have ye met in the desert darkness of the forestThe bard of love, the bard of his grief?Was it a track of tears, was it a smile,Or a quiet glance filled with melancholy,Have ye met?Have ye sighed, listening to the calm voiceOf the bard of love, of the bard of grief?When in the woods the youth ye sawAnd met the glance of his dulled eyes,Have ye sighed?1816.SPANISH LOVE-SONG.IV. 136.Evening ZephyrWaves the ether.Murmurs,RushesThe Guadalquivir.Now the golden moon has risen,Quiet,... Tshoo ... guitar's now heard....Now the Spanish girl youngO'er the balcony has leaned.Evening ZephyrWaves the ether.Murmurs,RushesThe Guadalquivir.Drop thy mantle, angel gentle,And appear as fair as day!Thro' the iron balustradePut thy wondrous tender foot!Evening ZephyrWaves the ether.Murmurs,RushesThe Guadalquivir.1824.[LOVE.]IV. 152.Bitterly groaning, jealous maid the youth was scolding;He, on her shoulder leaning, suddenly was in slumber lost.Silent forthwith is the maid; his light sleep now fondles sheNow she smiles upon him, and is shedding gentle tears.1835.[JEALOUSY.]IV. 85.Damp day's light is quenched: damp night's darknessStretches over the sky its leaden garment.Like a ghost, from behind the pine woodFoggy moon has risen....All brings upon my soul darkness grievous.Far, far away rises the shining moon,There the earth is filled with evening warmthThere the sea moveth with luxuriant waveUnder the heavens blue....Now is the time. On the hillside now she walksTo the shore washed by noisy waves.There, under the billowed cliffsAlone she sits now melancholy....Alone ... none before her weeping, grieves not,Her knees none kisses in ecstasy.Alone ... to lips of none she is yieldingHer shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .None is worthy of her heavenly love.Is it not so? Thou art alone. . . .Thou weepest. . . .And I at peace?. . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .But if. . . . . . .1823.IN AN ALBUM.IV. 99.The name of me, what is it to theeDie it shall like the grievous soundOf wave, playing on distant shore,As sound of night in forest dark.Upon the sheet of memoryIts traces dead leave it shallInscriptions-like of grave-yardIn some foreign tongue.What is in it? Long ago forgottenIn tumultuous waves and freshTo thy soul not give it shallPure memories and tender.But on sad days, in calmnessDo pronounce it sadly;Say then: I do remember thee—On earth one heart is where yet I live!1829.THE AWAKING.III. 42.Ye dreams, ye dreams,Where is your sweetness?Where thou, where thouO joy of night?Disappeared has it,The joyous dream;And solitaryIn darkness deepI awaken.Round my bedIs silent night.At once are cooled,At once are fled,All in a crowdThe dreams of Love—Still with longingThe soul is filledAnd grasps of sleepThe memory.O Love, O Love,O hear my prayer:Again send meThose visions thine,And on the morrowRaptured anewLet me dieWithout awaking!1816.ELEGY.III. 39.Happy who to himself confessHis passion dares without terror;Happy who in fate uncertainBy modest hope is fondled;Happy who by foggy moonbeamsIs led to midnight joyfulAnd with faithful key who gentlyThe door unlocks of his beloved.But for me in sad my lifeNo joy there is of secret pleasure;Hope's early flower faded is,By struggle withered is life's flower.Youth away flies melancholy,And droop with me life's roses;But by Love tho' long forgot,Forget Love's tears I cannot.1816.[FIRST LOVE.]I. 112.Not at once our youth is faded,Not at once our joys forsake us,And happiness we unexpectedYet embrace shall more than once;But ye, impressions never-dyingOf newly trepidating Love,And thou, first flame of Intoxication,—Not flying back are coming ye!ELEGY.III. 99.Hushed I soon shall be. But if on sorrow's dayMy songs to me with pensive play replied;But if the youths to me, in silence listeningAt my love's long torture were marvelling;But if thou thyself, to tenderness yieldingRepeated in quiet my melancholy versesAnd didst love my heart's passionate language;But if I am loved:—grant then, O dearest friend,That my beautiful beloved's coveted nameBreathe life into my lyre's farewell.When for aye embraced I am by sleep of Death,Over my urn do with tenderness pronounce:"By me he loved was, to me he owedOf his love and song his last inspiration."1821.THE BURNT LETTER.IV. 87.Good-bye, love-letter, good-bye! 'T is her command....How long I waited, how long my handTo the fire my joys to yield was loath! ...But eno', the hour has come: burn, letter of my love!I am ready: listens more my soul to nought.Now the greedy flame thy sheets shall lick ...A minute! ... they crackle, they blaze ... a light smokeCurls and is lost with prayer mine.Now the finger's faithful imprint losingBurns the melted wax.... O Heavens!Done it is! curled in are the dark sheets;Upon their ashes light the lines adoredAre gleaming.... My breast is heavy. Ashes dear,In my sorrowful lot but poor consolation,Remain for aye with me on my weary breast....1825.[SING NOT, BEAUTY.]IV. 135.Sing not, Beauty, in my presence,Of Transcaucasia sad the songs,Of distant shore, another life,The memory to me they bring.Alas, alas, remind they do,These cruel strains of thine,Of steppes, and night, and of the moonAnd of distant, poor maid's features.The vision loved, tender, fated,Forget can I, when thee I seeBut when thou singest, then before meUp again it rises.Sing not, Beauty, in my presenceOf Transcaucasia sad the songs,Of distant shore, another lifeThe memory to me they bring.1828.SIGNS.IV. 125.To thee I rode: living dreams thenBehind me winding in playful crowd;My sportive trot my shoulder overThe moon upon my right was chasing.From thee I rode: other dreams now....My loving soul now sad was,And the moon at left my sideCompanion mine now sad was.To dreaming thus in quiet everSingers we are given over;Marks thus of superstitionSoul's feeling with are in accord!1829.A PRESENTIMENT.IV. 97.The clouds again are o'er me,Have gathered in the stillness;Again me with misfortuneEnvious fate now threatens.Will I keep my defiance?Will I bring against herThe firmness and patienceOf my youthful pride?Wearied by a stormy lifeI await the storm fretlessPerhaps once more safe againA harbor shall I find....But I feel the parting nigh,Unavoidable, fearful hour,To press thy hand for the last timeI haste to thee, my angel.Angel gentle, angel calm,Gently tell me: fare thee well.Be thou grieved: thy tender gazeEither drop or to me raise.The memory of thee now shallTo my soul replaceThe strength, the pride and the hope,The daring of my former days!1828.[IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND.]III. 221.In vain, dear friend, to conceal I triedThe turmoil cold of my grieving soul;Now me thou knowest; goes by the intoxication.And no longer thee I love....Vanished for aye the bewitching hours,The beautiful time has passed,Youthful desires extinguished areAnd lifeless hope is in my heart....[LOVE'S DEBT.]IV. 101.For the shores of thy distant homeThou hast forsaken the foreign land;In a memorable, sad hourI before thee cried long.Tho' cold my hands were growingThee back to hold they tried;And begged of thee my parting groanThe gnawing weariness not to break.But from my bitter kisses thouThy lips away hast torn;From the land of exile drearyCalling me to another land.Thou saidst: on the day of meetingBeneath a sky forever blueOlives' shade beneath, love's kissesAgain, my friend, we shall unite.But where, alas! the vaults of skyShining are with glimmer blue,Where 'neath the rocks the waters slumber—With last sleep art sleeping thou.And beauty thine and sufferingsIn the urnal grave have disappeared—But the kiss of meeting is also gone....But still I wait: thou art my debtor! ...INVOCATION.III. 146.Oh, if true it is that by nightWhen resting are the livingAnd from the sky the rays of moonAlong the stones of church-yard glide;O, if true it is that emptied thenAre the quiet graves,I call thy shade, I wait my LilaCome hither, come hither, my friend, to me!Appear, O shade of my belovedAs thou before our parting wert:Pale, cold, like a wintry dayDisfigured by thy struggle of death,Come like unto a distant star,Or like a fearful apparition,'T is all the same: Come hither, come hitherAnd I call thee, not in orderTo reproach him whose wickednessMy friend hath slain.Nor to fathom the grave's mysteries,Nor because at times I'm wornWith gnawing doubt ... but I sadlyWish to say that still I love thee,That wholly thine I am: hither come, O hither!1828.ELEGY.IV. 100.The extinguished joy of crazy yearsOn me rests heavy, like dull debauch.But of by-gone days the grief, like wineIn my soul the older, the stronger 't grows.Dark my path. Toil and pain promised are meBy the Future's roughened sea.But not Death, O friends, I wish!But Life I wish: to think and suffer;Well I know, for me are joys in store'Mid struggles, toils, and sorrows:Yet 'gain at times shall harmony drink inAnd tears I'll shed over Fancy's fruit,—Yet mayhap at my saddened sunsetLove will beam with farewell and smile.1830.SORROW.III. 69.Ask not why with sad reflection'Mid gayety I oft am darkened,Why ever cheerless eyes I raise,Why sweet life's dream not dear to me is;Ask not why with frigid soulI joyous love no longer crave,And longer none I call dear:Who once has loved, not again can love;Who bliss has known, ne'er again shall know;For one brief moment to us 't is given:Of youth, of joy, of tendernessIs left alone the sadness.1817.DESPAIR.III. 41.Dear my friend, we are now parted,My soul's asleep; I grieve in silence.Gleams the day behind the mountain blue,Or rises the night with moon autumnal,—Still thee I seek, my far off friend,Thee alone remember I everywhere,Thee alone in restless sleep I see.Pauses my mind, unwittingly thee I call;Listens mine ear, then thy voice I hear.And thou my lyre, my despair dost share,Of sick my soul companion thou!Hollow is and sad the sound of thy string,Grief's sound alone hast not forgot....Faithful lyre, with me grieve thou!Let thine easy note and carelessSing of love mine and despair,And while listening to thy singingMay thoughtfully the maidens sigh!1816.A WISH.III. 38.Slowly my days are draggingAnd in my faded heart each moment doublesAll the sorrows of hopeless loveAnd heavy craze upsets me.But I am silent. Heard not is my murmur.Tears I shed ... they are my consolation;My soul in sorrow steepedFinds enjoyment bitter in them.O flee, life's dream, thee not regret I!In darkness vanish, empty vision!Dear to me is of love my pain,Let me die, but let me die still loving!1816.[RESIGNED LOVE.]IV. 99.Thee I loved; not yet love perhaps isIn my heart entirely quenchedBut trouble let it thee no more;Thee to grieve with nought I wish.Silent, hopeless thee I loved,By fear tormented, now by jealousy;So sincere my love, so tender,May God the like thee grant from another.[LOVE AND FREEDOM.]III. 157.Child of Nature and simple,Thus to sing was wont ISweet the dream of freedom—With tenderness my breast it filled.But thee I see, thee I hear—And now? Weak become I.With freedom lost foreverWith all my heart I bondage prize.[NOT AT ALL.]IV. 118.I thought forgotten has the heartOf suffering the easy art;Not again can be, said INot again what once has been.Of Love the sorrows gone were,Now calm were my airy dreams....But behold! again they trembleBeauty's mighty power before!...[INSPIRING LOVE.]IV. 117.The moment wondrous I rememberThou before me didst appearLike a flashing apparition,Like a spirit of beauty pure.'Mid sorrows of hopeless grief,'Mid tumults of noiseful bustle,Rang long to me thy tender voice,Came dreams to me of thy lovely features.Went by the years. The storm's rebellious rushThe former dreams had scatteredAnd I forgot thy tender voice,I forgot thy heavenly features.In the desert, in prison's darkness,Quietly my days were dragging;No reverence, nor inspiration,Nor tears, nor life, nor love.But at last awakes my soul:And again didst thou appear:Like a flashing apparition,Like a spirit of beauty pure.And enraptured beats my heart,And risen are for it againBoth reverence, and inspirationAnd life, and tears, and love.1825.[THE GRACES.]III. 160.Till now no faith I had in Graces:Seemed strange to me their triple sight;Thee I see, and with faith am filledAdoring now in one the three!
THE BIRDLET.IV. 133.In exile I sacredly observeThe custom of my fatherland:I freedom to a birdlet giveOn Spring's holiday serene.And now I too have consolation:Wherefore murmur against my GodWhen at least to one living beingI could of freedom make a gift?1823.THE NIGHTINGALE.IV. 145.In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the nightSings above the rose from the east the nightingale;But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it,But under its lover's hymn waveth it and slumbers.Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold?Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding?She neither listens, nor the bard she feels.Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?—Answer none she gives!1827.THE FLOWERET.IV. 95.A floweret, withered, odorlessIn a book forgot I find;And already strange reflectionCometh into my mind.Bloomed, where? when? In what spring?And how long ago? And plucked by whom?Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand?And wherefore left thus here?Was it in memory of a tender meeting?Was it in memory of a fated parting?Was it in memory of a lonely walk?In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods?Lives he still? Lives she still?And where their nook this very day?Or are they too witheredLike unto this unknown floweret?1828.THE HORSE.IV. 271.Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed,Why thy neck so low,Why thy mane unshakenWhy thy bit not gnawed?Do I then not fondle thee?Thy grain to eat art thou not free?Is not thy harness ornamented,Is not thy rein of silk,Is not thy shoe of silver,Thy stirrup not of gold?The steed in sorrow answer gives:Hence am I quietBecause the distant tramp I hear,The trumpet's blow and the arrow's whizzAnd hence I neigh, since in the fieldNo longer feed I shall,Nor in beauty live and fondling,Neither shine with harness bright.For soon the stern enemyMy harness whole shall takeAnd the shoes of silverTear he shall from feet mine light.Hence it is that grieves my spirit:That in place of my chaprakWith thy skin shall cover heMy perspiring sides.1833.TO A BABE.IV. 144.Child, I dare not over theePronounce a blessing;Thou art of consolation a quiet angelMay then happy be thy lot....THE POET.(IV. 2).Ere the poet summoned isTo Apollo's holy sacrificeIn the world's empty caresEngrossed is half-hearted he.His holy lyre silent isAnd cold sleep his soul locks in;And of the world's puny children,Of all puniest perhaps is he.Yet no sooner the heavenly wordHis keen ear hath reached,Than up trembles the singer's soulLike unto an awakened eagle.The world's pastimes him now wearyAnd mortals' gossip now he shunsTo the feet of popular idolHis lofty head bends not he.Wild and stern, rushes he,Of tumult full and sound,To the shores of desert wave,Into the widely-whispering wood.1827.TO THE POET.SONNET.(IV. 9).Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize!Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise;The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter—Calm stand, and firm be, and—sober!Thou art king: live alone. On the free roadWalk, whither draws thee thy spirit free:Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening,Never reward for noble deeds demanding.In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art;Severest judge, thine own works canst measure.Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman?Content? Then let the mob scold,And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire.Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.THE THREE SPRINGS.IV. 134.In the world's desert, sombre and shorelessMysteriously three springs have broken thro':Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid;It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs.The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspirationIn the world's deserts its exiles waters;The last spring—the cold spring of forgetfulness,Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire.1827.THE TASK.IV. 151.The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task.Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly?My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand,My wage in hand, to other task a stranger?Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine,Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?1830.SLEEPLESSNESS.IV. 101.I cannot sleep, I have no light;Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow;The beat monotonous aloneNear me of the clock is heard.Of the Fates the womanish babble,Of sleeping night the trembling,Of life the mice-like running-about,—Why disturbing me art thou?What art thou, O tedious whisper?The reproaches, or the murmurOf the day by me misspent?What from me wilt thou have?Art thou calling or prophesying?Thee I wish to understand,Thy tongue obscure I study now.1830.[QUESTIONINGS.]IV. 98.Useless gift, accidental gift,Life, why given art thou me?Or, why by fate mysteriousTo torture art thou doomed?Who with hostile power meOut has called from the nought?Who my soul with passion thrilled,Who my spirit with doubt has filled?...Goal before me there is none,My heart is hollow, vain my mindAnd with sadness wearies meNoisy life's monotony.1828.[CONSOLATION.]IV. 142.Life,—does it disappoint thee?Grieve not, nor be angry thou!In days of sorrow gentle be:Come shall, believe, the joyful day.In the future lives the heart:Is the present sad indeed?'T is but a moment, all will pass;Once in the past, it shall be dear.1825.[FRIENDSHIP.]III. 201.Thus it ever was and ever will be,Such of old is the world wide:The learned are many, the sages few,Acquaintance many, but not a friend![FAME.]III. 102.Blessed who to himself has keptHis creation highest of the soul,And from his fellows as from the gravesExpected not appreciation!Blessed he who in silence sangAnd the crown of fame not wearing,By mob despised and forgotten,Forsaken nameless has the world!Deceiver greater than dreams of hope,What is fame? The adorer's whisper?Or the boor's persecution?Or the rapture of the fool?1824.THE ANGEL.IV. 108.At the gates of Eden a tender angelWith drooping head was shining;A demon gloomy and rebelliousOver hell's abyss was flying.The Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of DoubtThe Spirit of Purity espied;And a tender warmth unwittinglyNow first to know it learned he.Adieu, he spake, thee I saw:Not in vain hast thou shone before me;Not all in the world have I hated,Not all in the world have I scorned.1827.[HOME-SICKNESS.]III. 131.Mayhap not long am destined IIn exile peaceful to remain,Of dear days of yore to sigh,And rustic muse in quietWith spirit calm to follow.But even far, in foreign land,In thought forever roam I shallAround Trimountain mine:By meadows, river, by its hills,By garden, linden nigh the house.Thus when darkens day the clear,Alone from depths of grave,Spirit home-longingInto the native hall fliesTo espy the loved ones with tender glance.1825.[INSANITY.]III. 149.God grant I grow not insane:No, better the stick and beggar's bag:No, better toil and hunger bear.Not that I upon my reasonSuch value place; not that IWould fain not lose it.If freedom to me they would leaveHow I would lasciviouslyFor the gloomy forest rush!In hot delirium I would singAnd unconscious would remainWith ravings wondrous and chaotic.And listen would I to the wavesAnd gaze I would full of blissInto the empty heavens.And free and strong then would I beLike a storm the fields updigging,Forest-trees uprooting.But here's the trouble: if crazy once,A fright thou art like pestilence,And locked up now shalt thou be.To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fastenAnd through the gate, a circus beast,Thee to nettle the people come.And at night not hear shall IClear the voice of nightingaleNor the forest's hollow sound,But cries alone of companions mineAnd the scolding guards of nightAnd a whizzing, of chains a ringing.[DEATH-THOUGHTS.]IV. 93.Whether I roam along the noisy streetsWhether I enter the peopled temple,Whether I sit by thoughtless youth,Haunt my thoughts me everywhere.I say, Swiftly go the years by:However great our number now,Must all descend the eternal vaults,—Already struck has some one's hour.And if I gaze upon the lonely oakI think: the patriarch of the woodsWill survive my passing ageAs he survived my father's age.And if a tender babe I fondleAlready I mutter, Fare thee well!I yield my place to thee. For me'T is time to decay, to bloom for theeEvery year thus, every dayWith death my thought I joinOf coming death the dayI seek among them to divine.Where will Fortune send me death?In battle? In wanderings, or on the wavesOr shall the valley neighboringReceive my chilled dust?But tho' the unfeeling bodyCan everywhere alike decay,Still I, my birthland nighWould have my body lie.Let near the entrance to my graveCheerful youth be in play engaged,And let indifferent creationWith beauty shine there eternally.1829.[RIGHTS.]IV. 10.Not dear I prize high-sounding rightsBy which is turned more head than one;Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to meThe blessed lot of discussing fates,Of hindering kings from fighting one another;And little care I whether free the press is.All this you see arewords, words, words!Other, better rights, dear to me are;Other, better freedom is my need....To depend on rulers, or the mob—Is not all the same it? God be with them!To give account to none; to thyself aloneTo serve and please; for power, for a liveryNor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend:Now here, now there to roam in freedomNature's beauties divine admiring,And before creations of art and inspirationMelt silently in tender ecstasy—This is bliss, these are rights!....THE GYPSIES.IV. 157.Over the wooded banks,In the hour of evening quiet,Under the tents are song and bustleAnd the fires are scattered.Thee I greet, O happy race!I recognize thy blazes,I myself at other timesThese tents would have followed.With the early rays to-morrowShall disappear your freedom's trace,Go you will—but not with youLonger go shall the bard of you.He alas, the changing lodgings,And the pranks of days of yoreHas forgot for rural comfortsAnd for the quiet of a home.THE DELIBASH.IV. 155.Cross-firing behind the hills:Both camps watch, theirs and ours;In front of Cossaks on the hillDashes 'long brave DelibashO Delibash, not to the line come nigh,Do have mercy on thy life;Quick 't is over with thy frolic bold,Pierced thou by the spear shalt beHey, Cossak, not to battle rushThe Delibash is swift as wind;Cut he will with crooked sabreFrom thy shoulders thy fearless head.They rush with yell: are hand to hand;And behold now what each befalls:Already speared the Delibash isAlready headless the Cossak is!