Autumn 'tis! Our garden standsFlowerless and bare,Dizzy whirling yellow leavesFill the wind swept air.Yet the distant mountain ashIn the vale below,With our favorite berries redNow begins to glow.While with rapture and with painThrobbing in my breast,Pressing hot thy hands in mine,Silent, unexpressed—Fondly gazing in thine eyes,Through my tears I see—That I can never tell theeHow dear thou art to me!
Burnt out is now my misery—love's yearningNo more unspeakably torments my heart,Yet bearable alone through thee, my being—All thou art not is idle, stale and dying,Colourless, withered, dead,—save where thou art!
If I no more through false suspicion troubleThy happiness,—nor more my blood inflames my veins,It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover,But free from jealousy, to thee thy loverAlways with soul of ardour true remains.
So in their rapid fury mountain torrentsThat hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep,Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot—Here in the vale are bound in the old currents,To stream in future calm and clear and deep!
In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea!It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow;O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrowI swear I am no longer true to thee!
The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy,From far away, with joy, to the belovéd shore;And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more,Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee!
White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me!Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew—From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew,And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep,And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep.O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy!
When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves,Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves—Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep,When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep;When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings,The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,—Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,—o'er grownBy frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn.And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown—Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound,And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast—The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest.A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds,Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads,Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tressesAnd on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses!
Clear on the night of my spirit,To me shines the glance of a star,It is she! My heart's little maiden!From her glance gleams something afar,Of victory, deathless, eternal—Something that musing, misgiving,Pierces the essence of being!
It cannot be! It cannot be!She lives—soon she will waken; straightwayWill ope her pretty eyes,—glad sheWill prattle merry, laughing gay!And when in tears beholding me—Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling,"Papa—it is but playing—See!I live,—yes! Leave off mourning!"But cold and mute she lies, alas!And motionless.
Now in her coffin she lies,Silent amid scented flowers—Ah what mute spirits in whiteO'er her corpse circle and hover?Are they the visions of bliss?Are they all spirits of hope?That during life lured her on—
Those to whom secretly oftShe had entrusted her soul?They that accompanied her e'er,Faithful in forest and field?Silent they circle my child,In tearful anguish embraced—Yet little actress she lies,Smiling, closed lashes beneath;See, she is laughing in truth—thou most merciless Death!
"Mother, why weepest thou everFor my little sister fair?She is now in heaven's kingdom—Ah, it must be wondrous there!"
"Yes, she is in heaven's glory,But in heaven's own land, alas!There are no butterflies nor flowers—Nor meadows of velvet grass!"
"But mother, God's blessed angelsThere, rejoicing sing to Him!"Forth from the sunset's rosy firesNow cometh the midnight dim.
Ah, the mother wants her baby—That she watched from the window wide,When 'mid butterflies and blossomsShe played in the meadow's pride!
The lark at sunrise trills it high—The greeting Christ is risen!And through the wood the black-bird pipesThe greeting Christ is risen!Beneath the eaves the swallows cryThe greeting Christ is risen!Throughout the world man's heart proclaimsThe greeting Christ is risen!And echo answers from the graveIn truth, yes, He is risen!
Drawing near the Easter SundayWith the Easter-greeting kiss;When I come, remember Dora—Not alone we suffer this!Then, as were it for the first time—Kiss thou me and I kiss thee;Thou with modest eyelids downcast,I with but ill stifled glee!
The religious custom of the Easter-greeting kiss prevails throughout Russia.
"O mountains of my native country! O valleys of my home!On you gleam Winter's snowflakes white and twinkle lambs of Summer—On you the rosy sunlight glows, you know no deathly shudder!"
So, 'neath the earth did wistful yearn three homesick youths in Hades,Who fain from out that under world to worlds above would hasten.The first declared "We'll go in Spring!" The second "No, in Summer!""No," cried the third, "at harvesting, in time the grapes to gather!"A listening maiden fair, o'erheard with heart resistless throbbing;Upon her breast her arms she crossed and begged of them imploring—"O take me to the upper world!" Alone the youths made answer,"That cannot be, you fairest maid, that you with us be taken!Your heels would clatter as you speed, your dress would rustle silken,Your rattling ornaments warn death to hear us all escaping."
"My rustling dress I will unlace,—my ornaments forsaking,Barefooted up the stairway steep will mute and cautious follow!Ah, but too gladly would I gaze again on earthly living!I fain my mother would console, sad for her daughter grieving—would my brothers twain behold, who for their sister sorrow!""O do not yearn, thou wretched child, for those thou lovest, ever!Thy brothers in the village street now joyful lead the wrestling—And with the neighbors on the street thy mother gossips zestful!"
The land lies parched in sun,—to heaven the air is still,Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings' lost thrill;Aeolian harps our native singers are,—and numbMust be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow,Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumbTheir breath be suffocated in this sultry glow!O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging,Stormed through our native land,—Spirit with freedom rife!How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringingTo greet the Godly power that promises new life!
Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrowsA living witness ye;Born of the passion of the soul, bewailingTempestuous and free,The hard heart of humanity assailingAs doth her cliffs the sea!
Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled,By each new victim of the combat torn—Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity,Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn.Alas! the wife will find a consolation.The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn.
But somewhere is the one soul that remembers—That will remember unto death's dark shore,Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken motherForget the sons gone down on fields of gore.One soul there is that like the weeping willowCan never raise its drooping branches more.
We stand unbroken in our places,Our shovels dare to take no rest,For not in vain his golden treasureGod buried deep in earth's dark breast.
Then shovel on and do not falter,Humble and hopeful, clear we see—When Russia has grown rich and mighty,Our grandchildren will grateful be!
* * * * *
Though streams the sweat in rivers downward,Our arms from shoveling grown weak,Our bodies frozen to an ice crustWhile we new strength in slumber seek—
Sweating or freezing, we will bear it!Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand,For each stone is of use to Russia,And each is given by our own hand!
Written to a band of political exiles including some of the highest aristocracy.
Oft through my native land I roved before,But never such a cheerful spirit bore.
When on its mother's breast a child I spy—Hope in my inmost heart doth secret cry,
"Boy, thou art born within a favoring time,Thine eyes shall glad escape old sights of crime.
Free as a child, thou can'st prove all and beThe forger sole of thine own destiny.
Peasant remain,—as to thy father given—Or like the eagle swing thyself to heaven!"
Castles in air I build! Man's spirit opesTo many ways to frustrate all my hopes.
Though serfdom's sad conditions left behind,Yet there be countless snares of varied kind!—
Well! Although the people soon may rend thee,Let me, oh Freedom, a welcome send thee!
Written shortly after the freeing of the serfs.
Farewell! Forget the days of trial,Of grudge, ill humor, misery—Tempests of heart and floods of weeping,And the revengeful jealousy.Ah, but the days whereon the sun roseTo light love's wonder, and begotIn us the power of aspiration,—bless them and forget them not!
Letter of love so strangely thrillingWith all your countless wonder yet,Though Time our heart's hot fires have mastered,Bringing a pang of pained regret!The while your blest receiver holds you,His banished passions still rebel,No longer reason sacrificesHis sentiment,—so then farewell!Destroyed be this love-token treasured!For if 'tis read when time has flown,Deep in the buried soul 'twill wakenThe torment vanished days have known.At first but a light scorn arousingFor silly childishness,—at lastWith fiery yearning overwhelming,And jealousy for all the past.
O Thou, from whom a myriad lettersSpeak with the breath of love to me,Though my gaze rest on thee austerely,Yet, yet,—I cannot part with thee!Time has revealed with bitter clearnessHow little thou with truth wert blessed,How like a child my own behaviour—Yet, dear to me I still must saveThis flower scentless, without colour,From off my manhood's early grave!
All through the cold night, beating wings shadowySweep o'er the church-village poor,—Only one Grandam a hundred years hoary,Findeth her slumber no more.
Harkens, if cocks to the dawn be not crowing,Rolls on her oven and weeps,Sees all her past rising up to confront her—O'er her soul shameful it creeps!
"Woe to me sinner old! Woe! Once I cheated—When from the church door I ran,And in the depths of the forest strayed hiddenWith my beloved Ivan.
"Woe to me! Burning in hell's leaping firesSurely will soon be my soul!I took a pair of eggs once at a neighbor's—Out from her hen—yes, I stole!
"Once at the harvest at home I did linger—Swore I was deadly sick,—whenTaking my part in the drunken carousalsSaturday night with the men!
"Light was I ever with soldiers! Yet cursingGod's name, when from me at last,—My own son they took for a soldier!Even drank cream on a fast.
"Woe to me sinner! Woe to me wretched one!Woe! My heart broken will be!Holy Madonna, have pity, have mercy!Into court go not with me!"
The stoves of the peasants are built so that they can sleep on top of them in the extreme cold of Winter.
'Neath a giant tentOf the heavens blue,Stretch the verdant Steppes;Range beyond the view.
On the distant rimLift the outlines proud,Of their mountain wallsTo the drifting cloud.
Through the Steppes there rollsStream on stream to sea,Wide meandering,Straying far and free.
Do I Southward gaze—Like the ocean there,Ripening fields of grainWave and ripple fair.
Softest velvet sodDecks the meadow floor,In the vineyards greenSwells the grape once more.
Do I Northward turn—O'er the waste lands lone,Soft as eider downAre the snowflakes blown.
And his azure wavesHigh the ocean lifts,On his cold blue breastNow an iceberg drifts.
And as leaping flameBurn the Northern lights,On the darkness gleamThrough the silent nights.
Even so art thou,Russian realm, become,—Thou my native land,Shield of Christendom!
Far away hast thou,Throughout lands untold,In thy glory fair,Russia, been enrolled!
Art thou not in spaceE'en o'er well supplied?Where a spirit boldFreely wanders wide!
Hast thou not alwayGold and grain rich stored?For thy friend a feast?For thy foe a sword?
Guards and shields thee notWith a sacred might,Holy altar forms,Deeds of glory bright?
To whom hast thou e'erBent an humble knee?Or before whom bowedSeeking charity?
In the Kurgan deep,Met in open fight,Thou hast e'en subduedThe fierce Tartar's might.
Fought to bloody deathThe Lithuanian horde,The defiant PoleScattered with a sword.
And how long ago,Black clouds, rising outOf the distant West,Compassed thee about?
'Neath the lightning flashSank the woods away,Trembled the earth's breast,Piercéd with dismay.
And the inky smokeRuinous did riseFrom the village burntTo the cloudy skies.
Loudly to the fightThen the Tsar did call—Russia swift replied,Coming one and all.
Women, children came—Men from age to youth,Gave their evil guestBloody feast in truth!
And in lonely fieldsUnder ice and snow,To his endless sleepLaid the victim low.
Where the snowstorms wildRaised o'er him a tomb,While the North wind sangDirges in the gloom.
Town and village tooOver all our land,Now like ant hills swarmWith this Christian band.
Now from distant shoresO'er the cruel sea,Ship on ship draws nearHomage paying thee.
Blooming are thy fields,Soft thy forests sigh,Hid in earth's dark breastGolden treasures lie.
And to East and West,To the South and North—Flies thy louder fameThrough the wide world forth!
Holy Russia, thouDost deserve to be"Mother" called by all,In our love to thee!
For thy glory fairWe should face the foe,And thy freedom guardingGlad our lives bestow!
To seven kopek the heir,Nor house nor land have I—Live I—hey! I live then!Die I—hey! I die!
In many realms the FoolCan sleep no wink for care,While yet the spendthrift snoresWhen dawns the morning fair.
Free as the wind he blows,Door nor gate to balk him,Riches, hey! Now give place!Poverty goes walking!
Before me bends the ryeWhen through the fields I strayAnd glad the forest hearsMy pipe and song alway.
If one must bitter weep—No man will see his tears,If sadly bowed his head—None save the partridge jeers.
If weary one, or not,What matters anything?Let him toss back his locksAnd playful laugh and sing!
And if one die,—the graveWill warm his hands and feet!Dost to my song respond?Nay? Then it is complete.
The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould….O Life,—so o'erflowing with sorrows untold,My life, so homeless and lonely and weary,Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary—Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky,And as a fire of the field wilt thou die!Die then—no sad falling tear will recall thee,Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee,Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted—Only one more from humanity parted;One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing—One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing!
Hark! What a silvery music is ringing!Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing!See on ethereal azure waves swinging,Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging!Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears,Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears!
Though blameless thy livingAs Anchorite's fate,Yet Gossip will find theeOr early or late.
Through keyhole he entersAnd stands at thy side,Doors of wood nor of stoneAgainst him provide.
He pulls the alarm bellAt slightest excuse—And down to thy graveWill pursue with abuse.
Self defence nothing boots thee,Thy flight he will worst—To earth he will tread thee,O Gossip be cursed!
Sultry dampness—pine chips smoking,Off-scourings a span length,In the corners webs of spiders,Smut on dish and bench.
Sooty black the bare wall, crock stained,Water—dry hard bread;Groanings, coughings, children's whimper,Wretched bitter need!
And a beggar's death for years ofHarshest drudgery—Learn to put your trust in God here,And to patient be.
O'er the church roof wandersMute and calm the moon,Blue upon the snowdriftsSparkling silent down.
By the small pond dreaming,Stands the church a'gleam—With its gold cross twinklingAs a taper's beam.
Peaceful in the villageDarkness reigns and sleep,Every hut is standingSnowed in window deep.
Out upon the highwayHushed and empty all,Now the howling watch dogsEven, silent fall.
After their day's laborYoung and old are pressedWeak and worn, on their hardNarrow place of rest.
In one cottage onlyShines a lamplight, whereA sick old hoary-headGroans in soul-despair.
Death is near,—and of herGrandchildren thinks she,Smitten sore the orphansHarvest time will be.
Ah the poor, poor children!Now so young for strife,All untried and helplessIn the woe of life!
Among stranger peopleOlder they will grow—Evil hearts will lure themEvil ways to go.
With disgrace too earlyThey will make a bond,Shamed and God forsakenSink unto the ground.
Dear God, thyself take them,Thy forsaken poor—Staff and light be to themThyself evermore!
And the sacred lamplightCalm and silent strays;On the holy picturesFall its trembling rays;
O'er the aged features,O'er the dying form,O'er the two small childrenOn the stove bench warm.
Sudden, through the stillnessRings a merry cry—And his jingling troikaDrives a reveller by!
Dies in silent distanceSleighbell clangor strong,And the careless, merry,Sorrow-troubling song.
From bald and sun-parched earth it rises,One lonely birch, high towering—Upon its withered crown wide spreading,Green leafage never more will sing.
Up to the rim of the horizonWhere veiling mists all soft enclose,Runneth the blossoming of flowers,The Steppe's green ocean waving flows.
In green enchantment stands the Kurgan,Where evening dampness doth enfold,The night descends with sleep and coolness,The morning sunbeams touch with gold.
Yet loveless, helpless stands the birch tree—In heaven's grey, musing sad to view,And from its branches fall like tear-dropsThe gleaming pearls of morning dew.
Scattered, alas! her tender leaflets,In howling storms,—so far, so wide!Ne'er will the birch, to greet the Springtide,Be fresh adorned in leafy pride!
Knowest thou the land of fragrance ardent glowing?Where night sublimely sparkles on the flowingOf the sea? Murmuring in starlight gleam—Weaving about the heart a wonder dream?Refulgent in the silvering moonbeams white,In soft half darkness, gardens slumbering light;Only the fountain's iridescent foamUpon the grass falls splashing down—And images of Gods with lips of silenceSunk in deep musing gaze on every side—While, eloquent of fallen majesty,Ruins entwined with ivy tendrils be?Soft pictured on the valley's verdant meadowsDark cypress trees reflect their slender shadows;Earth's bosom blooming in fecundity—And freedom here man's joyful destiny.
Yet more than tropic's soft abundance thralling,My stormy North-land wilderness is calling!Her snowflake flocks, her gleaming midnight frosts,The glory of grim forests on her coasts,Green tinted Steppes with distant bluish rim—The trooping clouds in heaven's spaces dim.Unto the heart how the familiar cries!The village mean that in the valley lies,The wealthy cities' towering majesty,The empty snow-fields' endless boundary,—The changeful moods that all unbridled throng;Spirit of Russia and of Russian song!With joy now gushing forth,—with pain now ringing—Unto the hearer's heart resistless singing.
Thou fairest picture! my breast with rapture sighs,My spirits free, victorious arise!A song breaks forth to Russia's praise and glory,And tears of joy, the while I muse, are flowing.And jubilant the kindling heart must cry—Hail Russia, Hail! Thy loyal son am I!
Hark! Who knocks with bony fingersOn the hut's small window latch?Hark! Who pulls away the stubbleRustling, from the roofing thatch?
From the fields it is not Vintage,Drunk and weary wavers home—'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy,As a nightmare dread become.
All subduing, all destroying,In his ragged garment poor,Drags he,—on his crutches limping—Noiseless reeling through the door.
Like the usurer hard hearted,For his last kopek in quest,Coffer, cupboard both he opens,Breaks the lock of case and chest.
Lordly rules he, late and early—In the granary; when goneEvery kernel of provision,The last cattle he will pawn.
From the land unto the cellar,Clean the peasant's hut he keeps,With a coarse and clumsy besomEvery tiny crumb he sweeps.
On the village highway alsoWorks and wins he over all,From the threshing floor to stable—From the sheepfold to the stall.
His approaching, sorrow follows—On his coming, follows need,On his greeting, follows sickness,On his hand-shake Death succeeds!
So he seeks in all directions,East and West and South and North—And in empty field embracesThankfully his friend the Frost!
Faded the footstep of Spring from our garden,Sighing the Autumn wind vanishing goes,Behold now, how close to us dreams are approaching—Love, it is time for repose!
List, how the leafage in raindrops all tearfulTrembles and wails for a sorry defeat,—All that was ours, that we once proudly boasted,All, was a glittering cheat.
Dark as a funeral pall hanging over,Fluttering clouds in their mockery close;Sighing within us is silenced our singing—Love, it is time for repose.
Deceitful from heaven's fair emerald rainbow,Soft borrowed glamour of moonbeams doth woo;Since even you to my faith were disloyal,Love, my false Springtime were you!
Soon will the sunbeams last radiant shiningTrackless be hurled where the Autumn wind blows,Slumber enmeshes my soul and the darkness—Love, it is time for repose!
There stood a beggar asking almsBy the cathedral gate,His face bore torture marks of life—Pale, tired, blind—like fate.
Thin, tired, pale and blind he beggedA crust of bread alone,And some one pausing, placed withinHis outstretched hand—a stone.
And even so I asked your love,I brought my dreams, my life—the whileUnto my passion you repliedOnly with your cold smile!
Darling, accept my bunch of perfumed roses;—Because in royal beauty and in freshness sweetThey dared to rival you,—I cut them down and boundThe criminals and brought them to your feet.
From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze.
With joy in your heart and a smile on your lipsYou admired the soft Southern night,And do you know when your beautiful eyesWere remarked, all the stars at the sightWere put out and turned faint in the skies?
This morning they brought their complaint to the sun—"In ether a star quite unknown!If to-night this same comet shall shineWhose radiance extinguished our own,We must all, our old splendor resign!"
And sadly the sun made them answer,—"Alas!Before her, I am pale at high noon;—See, to-day all is rainy and cold,'Tis the trace of defeat seen so soon,'Tis the trace of eclipse you behold!"
* * * * *
O happy the being whose life from afarShall be lighted by such a lode star!
From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine.
Whispers and the timid breathing,Nightingale's long trill,Silver moonlight and the rockingOf the dreaming rill;Nightly light and nightly shadow,Shadow's endless lace—Neath the moon's enchanted changesThe Beloved's face.Blinking stars as flash of amber,Snowy clouds on-rush,Tears and happiness and kisses—And the dawn's red blush!
Fête Chenchine, so-called, has no rival in impressionistic effects. The above without a verb is a good instance of his peculiar caprice.
The stars of beauty, the stars of purity,Have whispered their wonderful tales to the flowers!The satiny petals have smiled as they heard,And trembled the emerald leaves 'mid their bowers.But infatuate flowers deep drunken of dewRepeated these tales to the light swaying breeze—Rebellious winds listening swift caught them upAnd sang them o'er earth, o'er the mountains and seas!Now, as the earth under Springtime's caresses:With her verdant tissue is covered once more,All my madly passionate soul overflowsWith dreams of the stars and their radiant lore!And throughout these days of my sorrow and toil,Through these nights of my loneliness, darkness and rain—Stars wondrous and radiant, I give back to you,Your ethereal fancies again!
One dearest pair of eyes I love!Entranced my heart beneath their spell—Clearer than clearest ray they are,But where they are—I will not tell!
Through silk of wondrous lashes soft,Their burning beams are flashing bright,Upon my knees, a slave I kneel—Before those miracles of light.
The storm is growing in my soul,Tempest of pain and happiness—I love one dearest pair of eyes,But whose they are—I'll not confess!
Pile of embers in the darkness,Sparks expire as they fly—Night conceals us from the passing,On the bridge we'll say good-by!
At the parting, shawl of crimsonCross my shoulders thou shalt lace,At an end the days swift passing,Met within this shaded place.
In the morning, with first splendour,All my life compelled to rove—I shall leave with other gipsiesSeeking happiness and love.
How does fate foretell my future?Who, to-morrow by my side,O'er my heart will loose with kissesKnots by thy dear hand fast tied?
Flash of embers in the darkness,Sparks expire as they fly—Night conceals us from the passing,On the bridge we'll kiss good-by!
No word,—not e'en a sigh, my darling!Together now the silence keeping;In truth as o'er some grave stone leaningThe silent willows low are weeping,And drooping o'er it so are reading—I read in thy tired heart at last,That days of happiness existed,And that this happiness is past.
So sultry is the hour I throw the casement wide,Fall on my knees beside it in the gloom,And cowering before me lies the balmy night,Wafted aloft the breath of lilac bloom.The nightingale her plaint from a near thicket sobs,I listen to the singer, share the woe—With a longing for my home within me waking,The home I looked on last so long ago!And the nightingales of home with their familiar song!And lilacs in my childhood gardens fair!How the languors of the night possess my being,Restoring my lost youth on perfumed air!
With the greatness of God all my heart is on fire!Such a beauty to earth does He lend—He created eternity for our desire,To our torment has given an end.
Ne'er have I sung in idle hours of dreaming,With verse harmonious and sweet-voiced rhyme,I have sung only when in tempest ragingMy soul was shaken by a power sublime!For each thought I have suffered and been troubled,No dream creation painless from me torn,The blessed lot of Poet not seldom seemingA cross intolerable to be borne!Oft have I sworn to evermore keep silence,To mingle and be lost among the crowd,But when the winds once more their strings are sweeping—Aeolian harps must ever cry aloud;And in the Spring the flooding streams on-rushingMust downward plunge into the vale below,When from the rocky peaks' high towering summitsThe sun's warm rays have melted off the snow.
Take from thy brow the laurel—cast it forth!May it in dust lie 'neath thy feet;The blood-flecked thorn crown hurl away—As witness of thy pain alone 'tis meet!
Hark! The storm petrel shrieks!Reef the sail canvas fast!See, the Spirit of Storm with wildest commotionHas to heaven's arched vaulting his coronal pressed,While his heels dam the flood gates of ocean!Furious storm-cloud his undulent drapery,Girded round with the lightning wide flashing;O'er the sea's leaden billows from his threatening handThe thunderbolts are sent crashing!
To you,—you beggars in the forests proud,—To pastures free, my hasting foot returns!The May is come! It smiles and laughs aloud—For Love's desire, freedom's bliss, it yearns.Erased the marks of city slavery,Here where the sun gleams gold through azure hours—Here wrests the spirit from all bondage free,The fields grown green and the syringa flowers!
Storms only, brought my youthful morning red,And night of soul and wilderness of pains—All in my breast is hushed and numb and dead,The pulsing fever stopped within my veins;Yet here, where Nature winds a wreath for me,The arms stretch forth,—the weary glance devours—And the arrested soul exults and sings,The fields grow green and the syringa flowers!
Slumber soft,—oh thou my heart's beloved!Death alone can bring eternal rest,And in death alone 'neath tearless lashesShall thine eyes forever close be pressed;In thy grave, no more with fevered doubtingShall thy golden head tormented be,In thy grave alone, thou'lt never long forAll that life so cruel robbed from thee.
Through the grass, white yet thy coffin shining—O'er thy grave the cross is looming white,As in silent prayer unto the heavensMournful gleaming through the cold blue night.Now with tears my eyes are overflowing,Hotter tears I ne'er before have wept—All the bitter sorrows I have sufferedIn one sobbing cry together swept.
Spring across the fields will be returningWith her silver nightingales, ere long—Through the dusky nights of silence piercingE'en thy grave with her inspiring song,And the lindens whispering, will murmur—Breathless die away, and sighing cease,But thou—slumber soft my heart's beloved,Death alone can bring eternal peace!
Forsaken am I now anew,Night's sombre wings o'er me descending,As tearless, meditating, dumb—Above thy grave's low mound I'm bending.Naught offers recompense for thee,No hopes console or fears betray—For whom now live I in this world?For whom on earth now shall I pray?
In my dreams I saw heavens bespangled,With silvery stars all adorned,And pale green sorrowing willowsDrooping low o'er the pale blue pond.I saw in syringa emboweredA cottage, and thou my heart's Dove—And bowed was thy little curly head,My beautiful sad pale Love!
Thou wert weeping, the teardrops shiningWere flowing from thy yearning gaze,For love the roses wept also,For joy sobbed the nightingale.And every tear found consoling—A greeting from near and from far,The garden was lit by a glow worm,Enraptured the heavens a star!
Thou hospitable old grey house,—A greeting unto thee!With thy red ochre roofs,—vine trellised o'er;The gardens fair laid forth in blooming luxury,The fields in glinting beads of dew stretched endlessly,Beneath the sun's fresh kiss a gilded floor!
A silvery ribbon through the flowering green—The icy billows of the river foam,Above her clay-white strand are verdant arbours seen,Spun o'er with leafage, through the waking land between,And where the azure river's currents roam.
Prattling, the river lisps of love and of repose—And in the distance shimmers, faintly dies;A flower, secret listening as its message flows,A roguish kiss of gratitude in fragrance blows,While beckoning stars smile from the silent skies.
I greet thee, home and mother! Joys now charm anewThat I believed but once to me were given;Thee I forsook,—and now my last expiring viewTurns back from fruitless conflict to thy vision true,Love, no more mine, nor hope nor peace of heaven!
Mother and home, I greet thee! O caress thy childWhom weariness, regret, despair assail—With sighing of thy groves in the soft wind beguiled,With sunbeams of thy Springtime smiling fair and mild,And with the liquid song of nightingales!
Let me once only weep in the assurance blestThat I am not girt round with human scorn,Let me but sleep once more upon thy gentle breast,Forgetting in my childish, deeply-dreaming restThe loss and failure of my life forlorn!
Call him not dead,—he lives!Ah you forgetThough the pyre lies in ruin the fires upward sweep,The string of the harp is broken but her chords still weep,The rose is cut but it is blooming yet!