The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRussian LyricsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Russian LyricsTranslator: Martha Dickinson BianchiRelease date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #11985]Most recently updated: December 26, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN LYRICS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Russian LyricsTranslator: Martha Dickinson BianchiRelease date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #11985]Most recently updated: December 26, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: Russian Lyrics
Translator: Martha Dickinson Bianchi
Translator: Martha Dickinson Bianchi
Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #11985]Most recently updated: December 26, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN LYRICS ***
Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi
THE SIN OF ANGELS: A Novel
A COSSACK LOVER: A Novel
THE CUCKOO'S NEST: A Novel
A MODERN PROMETHEUS: A Novel of Italy. With a frontispiece
Author of "Within the Hedge," "The Cathedral," "A Modern Prometheus," "The Cuckoo's Nest" etc.
NEW YORK DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 1916
To "A soul of passion, mirth and tears."
The Song of the Kazak………………………….. PushkinCradle Song of a Cossack Mother………………. LermontoffThe Dagger…………………………………. LermontoffDon't Give Me the Wine!……….(From the Georgian of PrinceTschawtschawadze)The Delibash………………………………….. PushkinTo the Don……………………………………. PushkinThe Caucas……………………………………. PushkinThe Cloister on Kasbek…………………………. PushkinGoblins of the Steppes…………………………. PushkinUnder a Portrait of Jukowsky……………………. PushkinThe Vision……………………………………. PushkinI Loved Thee………………………………….. PushkinSerenade……………………………………… PushkinA Winter Evening………………………………. PushkinThe Last Flower……………………………….. PushkinStanzas from "Onegin"Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer……………. PushkinSometimes He read Aloud with Olga……………… PushkinLove Condescends to Every Altar……………….. PushkinHow Sad to Me is Thine Appearing………………. PushkinThe Memorial………………………………….. PushkinTamara…………………………………….. LermontoffThe Gift of the Terek……………………….. LermontoffOn Departure for the Caucas………………….. LermontoffTo the Clouds………………………………. LermontoffTo My Country………………………………. LermontoffTo Kasbek………………………………….. LermontoffThe Angel………………………………….. LermontoffA Prayer…………………………………… LermontoffThe Sail…………………………………… LermontoffI Am Not Byron……………………………… LermontoffLike An Evil Spirit…………………………. LermontoffTo A.C.S…………………………………… LermontoffA Song…………………………………….. LermontoffFrom Démon…………………………………. LermontoffThe Prayer…………………………………. LermontoffThe Palm Branch of Palestine…………………. LermontoffThe Dispute………………………………… LermontoffHeaven and the Stars………………………… LermontoffOn Napoleon's Death…………………………. LermontoffOn the Death of Pushkin……………………… LermontoffRussia, O My Russia, Hail!……………………… TolstoyThe Wolves……………………………………. TolstoyAutumn……………………………………….. TolstoyBurnt Out Is Now My Misery……………………… TolstoyIn Hours of Ebbing Tide………………………… TolstoySwans…………………………………………. MaikowTo Sleep………………………………………. MaikowIn Memory of My Daughter………………………… MaikowMother and Child……………………………….. MaikowAn Easter Greeting……………………………… MaikowAt Easter……………………………………… MaikowO Mountains of My Native Country!………………… MaikowThe Aeolian Harp……………………………….. MaikowYe Songs of Mine!……………………………. NekrassowIn War……………………………………… NekrassowA Song of Siberian Exiles…………………….. NekrassowFreedom…………………………………….. NekrassowA Farewell………………………………….. NekrassowThe Love Letter……………………………… NekrassowWhat the Sleepless Grandam Thinks……………… NekrassowTo Russia…………………………………….. NikitinThe Song of the Spendthrift…………………….. NikitinThe Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould……. NikitinGossip……………………………………….. NikitinIn a Peasant Hut………………………………. NikitinWinter Night in the Village…………………….. NikitinThe Birch Tree………………………………… NikitinNorth and South……………………………….. NikitinHunger……………………………………….. FofanowFaded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden……… FofanowThe Beggar……………………………………. FofanowWith Roses…………………. (From the Georgian of PrinceTschawtschawadze)The Stars……….. (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine)Whispers and the Timid Breathing………. ("Fete Chenchine")The Tales of the Stars………………………… FofanowOne Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love…………….. (Gipsy Song)A Gipsy Song…………………………………. PolonskyAt Last…………………………………… PlestcheeffBy An Open Window…………….. The Grand Duke ConstantineWith the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!…. NadsonThe Poet………………………………………. NadsonTo the Muse……………………………………. NadsonA Fragment…………………………………….. NadsonIn May………………………………………… NadsonIn Memory of N.M.D……………………………… NadsonAt the Grave of N.M.D…………………………… NadsonIn Dreams……………………………………… NadsonThe Old Grey House……………………………… NadsonCall Him Not Dead,—He Lives!……………………. Nadson
Brief Biographical Notes:Alexander Sergjewitsch PushkinMichail Jurjewitsch LermontoffCount Alexis Constantinowitsch TolstoyApollon Nikolajewitsch MaikowNikolai Alexajewitsch NekrassowIvan Ssawitsch NikitinConstantine Michailowitsch FofanowSemijon Jakolowitsch Nadson
To the Reader.
The translations in this little collection make no pretension to being more than an effort to share the delight found in them; from which most of the world is debarred by the difficulty of the language in which they are written. They have been chosen at random, each for some intrinsic charm or because of its bearing upon some peculiar phase of the author. Very few of the lyrics of Pushkin have been included, for the reason that the great founder of Russian poetry has been more widely translated than any other Russian poet, and is therefore available in several languages.
Remembering always that Heine declared translation was betrayal,—the rhyme and smoothness have in every case been sacrificed when necessary to preserve the exact rhythm, and as far as possible the vigour and colour, as well as thought of the original; a task entirely beyond me save for the co-operation of an accomplished Russian linguist who has kindly assisted in the literal translation of every poem here presented.
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,Kazak has never heart for rest,Not on the field, nor in the wood,Nor when in face of danger pressedHis steed the raging stream must breast!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,With him a mighty power brings,To win the honour of his landKazak his life unheeding flings—Till fame of him eternal sings!
Kazak brought all SiberiaAt foot of Russia's throne to lie,Kazak left glory in the Alps,His name the Turk can terrify,His flag he ever carries high!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,Kazak has never heart for rest,Not on the field, nor in the wood,Nor when in face of danger pressedHis steed the raging stream must breast!
The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half—Kazák.
Slumber sweet, my fairest baby,Slumber calmly, sleep—Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber,In thy cradle creep;I will tell to thee a story,Pure as dewdrop glow,Close those two beloved eyelids—Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o'er its pebblesBlusters through the vale,On its shores the little KhirgezWhets his murdrous blade;Yet thy father grey in battle—Guards thee, child of woe,Safely rest thee in thy cradle,Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee,Danger, slaughterous fire—Thou shalt on a charger gallop,Curbing at desire;And a saddle girth all silkenSadly I will sew,Slumber now my wide-eyed darling,Lullaby, By-low!
When I see thee, my own Being,As a Cossack true,Must I only convoy give thee—"Mother dear, adieu!"Nightly in the empty chamberBlinding tears will flow,Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one,Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I'll wait lamentingAs the days go by,Ardent for thee praying,—fearingIn the cards to spy.I shall fancy thou wilt suffer,As a stranger grow—Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest,Lullaby, By-low!
I will send a holy image'Gainst the foe with thee,To it kneeling, dearest Being,Pray with piety!Think of me in bloody battle,Dearest child of woe,Slumber soft within thy cradle,Lullaby, By-low!
I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence—I love the beauty of thy glitter cold,A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war,Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold.
A lily hand, in parting's silent woe,Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade;Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewedWith sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade.
Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul,Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain—Like thine own steel within the fire's glow,Flashed forth to me—then faded dull again.
For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed,In my life's night to guide me to my end;Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever,Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend!
Don't give me the wine!I am drunk of my love,With the force of my passion for you!Don't give me the wine!Or my tongue will betrayAll the love no one dreamed hitherto;For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast,All the bitter hot tears that were mine,My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest—I am drunk of my love,—don't give me the wine!
You promise me roses now, if I will drinkBut one drop of the wine;—if you pleaseGive only one breath from the rose of your lips!And death's cup I will drain to the lees.All passions are raging at once in my blood,Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine.You seem for my suffering only to wish—I am drunk of my love!Don't give me the wine!
From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze.
With the hostile camp in skirmishOur men once were changing shot,Pranced the Delibash his charger'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot.
Trifle not with free-born Cossacks!Nor too o'er foolhardy be!Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for—On his pike he'll skewer thee!
'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound,Off thy head, at lightning speedWith his scimitar he'll severFrom thy trunk! He will indeed!
What confusion! What a roaring!Halt! thou devil's pack, have care!On the pike is lanced the horseman—Headless stands the Cossack there!
Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur.
Through the Steppes, see there he glances!Silent flood glad hailed by me,—Thy far distant sons do profferThrough me, greeting fond to thee!
Every stream knows thee as brother,Don, thou river boasted wide!The Araxes and EuphratesSend thee greeting as they glide.
Fresh and strengthened for pursuing,Scenting home within thy gleam—Drink again the Don'ish horses,Flowing boundary, of thy stream!
Faithful Don! There also greet theeThy true warriors bold and free—Let thy vineyard's foaming bubblesIn the glass be spilled to thee!
The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack.
The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand whereGlaciers gleam, beside a precipice rock-ribbed;An eagle that has soared from off some distant cliff,Lawless as I, sweeps through the radiant air!Here I see streams at their sources up-welling,The grim avalanches unrolling and swelling!
The soft cloudy convoys are stretched forth below,Tattered by thronging mad torrents descending;Beneath them the naked rocks downward are bending,Still deeper, the wild shrubs and sparse herbage grow;But yonder the forests stand verdant in floraAnd birds are a'twitter in choiring chorus.
Yonder, cliff-nested-are dwellings of mortals,There pasture the lambs in sweet blossoming meadows—There couch the herds in the cool deepening shadows—There roar the Aragua's blue sparkling waters,And lurketh the bandit safe hid in lone caverns,Where Terek, wild sporting, is cutting the azure!
It leaps and it howls like some ravening beastAt first sight of feeding, through grating of iron—It roars on the shore with a furious purring,It licks on the pebbles with eagerest greed.Vain struggle and rancor and hatred, alas!'Tis enchained and subdued by the unheeding mass.
KASBEK, thy regal canopyHigh o'er all peaks revealed I seeBy an eternal icy glare.Hanging in cloudless glory ever—Like to an ark thy cloister there;This world disturbing thy peace never,Blest realm of joy remote in air!Ah could I at thy mercy's threshold,From durance cursed set myself free,And in thine own etherial cloistersNear thy Creator ever be!
Stormy clouds delirious straying,Showers of whirling snowflakes white,And the pallid moonbeams waning—Sad the heavens, sad the night!Further speeds the sledge, and further,Loud the sleighbell's melody,Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming,'Mid these snow fields now to be!
Hasten! "That is useless, Master,Heavier for my team their load,And my eyes with snow o'er plasteredCan no longer see the road!Lost all trace of our direction,Sir, what now? The goblins drawUs already round in circles,Pull the sledge with evil claw!
See! One hops with frantic gesture,In my face to grin and hiss,See! It goads the frenzied horsesOnward to the black abyss!In the darkness, like a palingOne stands forth,—and now I seeHim like walking-fire sparkling—Then the blackness,—woe is me!"
Stormy clouds delirious straying,Showers of snowflakes whirling white,And the pallid moonbeams waning—Sad the heavens, sad the night!Sudden halt the weary horses,Silent too the sleighbells whirr—Look! What crouches on the ground there?"Wolf,—or shrub,—I know not, Sir."
How the wind's brood rage and whimper!Scenting, blow the triple team;See! One hops here! Forward Driver!How his eyes with evil gleam!Scarce controllable the horses,How the harness bells resound!Look! With what a sneering grimaceNow the spirit band surround!
In an endless long procession,Formless, countless of their kindCircle us in flying coveysLike the leaves in Autumn wind.Now in ghastly silence deathly,Now with shrilling elfin cry—Is it some mad dance of bridal,Or a death march passing by?
Stormy clouds delirious strayingShowers of snowflakes whirling white,And the pallid moonbeams waning—Sad the heavens, sad the night!Cloudward course the evil spiritsIn unceasing phantom bands,And their moaning and bewailingGrip my heart with icy hands!
The charm and sweetness of his magic verseWill mock the envious years for centuries!Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns,The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees,And careless joy to wistful musing turns.
Jukowsky was a Russian poet.
I remember a marvellous instant,Unto me bending down from above,Thy radiant vision appearingAs an angel of beauty and love.'Mid the torments of desperate sadness,In the torture of bondage and sighs,To me rang thy voice so beloved—And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes.But the years rolled along—and life's tempestsMy illusions, my youth overcame,I forgot that sweet voice full of music—And thy glance like a heavenly flame.In the covert and grief of my exile,The days stretched unchanged in their flight,Bereft inspiration or power,Bereft both of love and of light.To my soul now approaches awakening,To me thou art come from above,As a radiant and wonderful vision—As an angel of beauty and love.As before my heart throbs with emotion,Life looks to me worthy and bright,And I feel inspiration and power—And again love and tears and the light!
I loved thee; and perchance until this momentWithin my breast is smouldering still the fire!Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!
I loved thee with a silent desperation—Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,I loved devoutly,—with such deep devotion—Ah may God grant another love thee so!
I watch InesillaThy window beneath,Deep slumbers the villaIn night's dusky sheath.
Enamoured I linger,Close mantled, for thee—With sword and with guitar,O look once on me!
Art sleeping? Wilt wake theeGuitar tones so light?The argus-eyed greybeardMy swift sword shall smite.
The ladder of ropesThrow me fearlessly now!Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet,Been false to thy vow?
I watch InesillaThy window beneath,Deep slumbers the villaIn night's dusky sheath!
Sable clouds by tempest driven,Snowflakes whirling in the gales,Hark—it sounds like grim wolves howling,Hark—now like a child it wails!Creeping through the rustling straw thatch,Rattling on the mortared walls,Like some weary wanderer knocking—On the lowly pane it falls.
Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen,Drear and lonely our retreat,Speak a word and break the silence,Dearest little Mother, sweet!Has the moaning of the tempestClosed thine eyelids wearily?Has the spinning wheel's soft whirringHummed a cradle song to thee?
Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,Thou true-souled companion dear—Let us drink! Away with sadness!Wine will fill our hearts with cheer.Sing the song how free and carelessBirds live in a distant land—Sing the song of maids at morningMeeting by the brook's clear strand!
Sable clouds by tempest driven,Snowflakes whirling in the gales,Hark—it sounds like grim wolves howling,Hark—now like a child it wails!Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,Thou true-souled companion dear,Let us drink! Away with sadness!Wine will fill our hearts with cheer!
Rich the first flower's graces be,But dearer far the last to me;My spirit feels renewal sweet,Of all my dreams hope or desire—The hours of parting oft inspireMore than the moments when we meet!
Stanzas from "Onegin"
Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer,Than Southern Winter scarce more bland—Is undeniably withdrawingOn fleeting footsteps from the land.Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens,The light of sunbeams rarer grown—Already every day is shorter,While with a smitten hollow toneThe forest drops its shadow leafage;Upon the fields the mists lie white,In lusty caravans the wild geeseNow to the milder South take flight;Seasons of tedium draw near,Before the door November drear!
From shivering mist ascends the morning,The bustle, of the fields declines,The wolf walks now upon the highway,In wolfish hunger howls and whines;The traveller's pony scents him, snorting—The heedful wanderer breathless takesHis way in haste beyond the mountains!And though no longer when day breaksForth from their stalls the herd beginsTo drive the kine,—his noon-day horn recalls.The peasant maiden sings and spins,Before her crackling, flaming brightThe pine chips,—friend of Winter night.
And see! The hoar frost colder sparklesAnd spreads its silver o'er the fields,Alas! the golden days are vanished!Reluctant Nature mournful yields.The stream with ice all frozen overGleams as some fashionable parquét,And thronging hordes of boyish skatersSweep forward on its crystal way.On her red claws despondent swimming,The plump goose parts the water cold,Then on the ice with caution stalkingShe slips and tumbles,—ah behold!Now the first snowflake idling downStars the depressing landscape brown.
At such a season in the country,What can a man's amusements be?Walk? And but more of empty highwayAnd of deserted village see?Or let him through the far Steppes gallop,His horse can scarcely stand at all—His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold,The rider dreading lest he fall!So then remain within thy paling,Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott,Compare thy varying editions,Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not!As the long evenings drag awaySo doth the Winter too delay.
[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw were demanded.]
Sometimes he read aloud with OlgaA latter day romance discreet,Whose author truly painted nature,With cunning plot, insight complete;Oft he passed over a few pages,Too bald or tasteless in their art—And coloring, began on further,Not to disturb the maiden heart.Again, they sat for hours together,With but a chess board to divide;She with her arms propped on the table,Deep pondering, puzzled to decide—Till Lenski from his inward stormCaptured her castle with his pawn!
Love condescends to every altar,Ah when in hearts of youth it springs,Its coming brings such glad refreshmentAs May rain o'er the pasture flings!Lifted from passion's melancholyThe life breaks forth in fairer flower,The soul receives a new enrichment—Fruition sweet and full of power.But when on later altars aridIt downward sweeps, about us flows—Love leaves behind such deathly tracesAs Autumn tempests where it blowsTo strip the woods with ruthless hand,And turn to soggy waste the land!
How sad to me is thine appearing,O Springtime, hour of love's unrest!Within the soul what nameless languors!What passions hid within the breast!With what a heavy, heavy spiritFrom the earth's rustic lap I feelAgain the joy of Springtide odors—That once could make my spirit reel!No more for me such pleasures thrilling,All that rejoices, that has life,All that exults,—brings but despondenceTo one past passion as past strife,All is but prose to such as he,Wearied unto satiety.
Perchance we fain would pass unnoticedThat which in Autumn drooped and pined,Now radiant in verdure springing,Since it must of our loss remind;As with a tortured soul we realizeIn Nature's glad awakening,That we shall never find renewal,Who evermore are withering.Perchance there haunts us in remembrance,Our own most dear and lyric dream,Another long forgotten Springtime—And trembling neath this pang supreme,The heart faints for a distant countryAnd for a night beside the sea!
Beyond compare the monument I have erected,And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,—Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillarThe Emperor Alexander hath!
I shall not vanish wholly,—No! but young foreverMy spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring,And men within this world shall hold me in remembranceWhile yet one Singer lives to sing.
My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia,Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide,The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me—The Tungoose in his reindeer hide.
Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished,Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed,In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom,And never for their pleasures blamed.
O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever!Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain—Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation,And argument with Fools disdain!
The Alexander column, standing before the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg, is a monolith eighty feet high; with the pedestal measuring one hundred and fifty feet.
Where waves of the Terek are waltzingIn Dariel's wickedest pass,There rises from bleakest of storm cragsAn ancient grey towering mass.
In this tower by mad winds assaulted,Sat ever Tamara, the Queen—A heavenly angel of beauty,With a spirit of hell's own demesne.
Through the mist of the night her gold firesGleamed down through the valley below,A welcome they threw to the pilgrim,In their streaming and beckoning glow.
How clear rang the voice of Tamara!How amorous did it invite!The heart of the stranger enticing,Seducing with magic delight!
The warrior was snared by her singing,Nor noble, nor herd could withstand—Then noiseless her portal was openedBy eunuchs of shadowy hand.
With pearls rare adorned and strange jewels,Reposed on a billowy nest,A prey to voluptuous longing,Tamara awaited her guest.
With passioned and thrilling embracement,With straining of breast unto breast,With sighing and trembling and transport—In lust's unrestrained, giddy zest—
So revelled 'mid desolate ruins,Of Lovers,—past counting at least!In their bridal night's wild distraction,And in truth at their own death feast.
For when from the peaks of the mountainsThe sun tore the night's veiling soft,There reigned anew only the silenceOn turret and casement aloft.
And only the Terek bewailingWith fury broke in on the hush,As dashing her billows on billowsHer writhing floods onward did rush.
A youth's form her currents are bearing,Ah vainly they murmur and swell!A woman, a pale and a fair one—Cries down from her tower "Farewell!"
Her voice has the sound of faint weeping,So amorous, tender and sweet—As if she in love's holy raptureDid promise of meeting repeat!
[Tamara is the Russian Lorelei. The ruins of her castle are still shown in the pass of Darjal on the famous Georgian Road.]
Through the rocks in wildest coursesSeethes the Terek grim of mood,Tempest howling its bewailing,Pearled with foam its tearful flood.
At the mountain's feet soft streaming,Gentler grown its murmurs be,And with greeting full of fawningSpeaks to the Caspian Sea:
"Hospitable part thy billows,Give me room, oh Ocean grave!From a distance drawing thither—Scarce my weary currents wave.
Born upon the edge of Kasbek,By the breast of clouds renewed,Hatred have I sworn to mankind,Who with us, the free, make feud.
See, by rage of my own furyLies despoiled my Darjal home,And as playthings for thy children,Pebbles bearing now I come."
Yet upon her strands a'dreaming,Mute the grey Sea did remain,And the Terek, silver foaming,Spoke caressingly again.
"Grey Sea I would serve thee only,Have a present borne to-day—See, 'tis a young CarabineerWho has fallen in the fray.
How his coat of mail is gleamingSilver on the billows' span!Golden on his trappings shiningBlessing of the Alcoran!
Menacing the one who slew himScowls the brow's relentless feud,By his noble life blood crimsonedO'er his lips his hair is glued.
Through the half-closed eyelids glancingStill the lust of quarrel mocks,From his head deep underneath himFlow the matted raven locks."
Motionless upon her beachesDid the grey Sea still remain,And the Terek foaming yellowIn displeasure spoke again.
"So then, take him as a present,As I nothing fairer knowOn this round earth,—for thee onlyThis rare prize I've guarded so!
'Tis a mountain Cossack's bodyWafted 'mid my billows' dance,See his hair,—no silk is softer—See his shoulder's gold expanse!
See how o'er his red lips speechlessNow the seated eyes find rest;Trickling yet the purple life bloodFrom the small wound on his breast.
For a young and holy maiden,Weeps lamenting, every heart!One sole Cossack in the village,In this mourning takes no part.
From the confines of his countryRode he forth with boding grey,'Neath the dagger of the TscherkesHe has breathed his soul away."
And the Terek paused; behold nowIn the gleaming foam flood drowned,Silvered in the spraying billowsDips a head with rushes crowned.
And the hoary one's lips whisperHaughty words of youthful fire,And the eyes lit with love lustreFlame with passionate desire.
Foaming, rushing on swift longing,Seethed he up in youthful zest—And the Terek flood was weddedWith him in embraces blest.
Farewell my hateful Russian country!People of lord and serf you are—Farewell, salute, bent knee and hand-kiss,Three-masters, uniform and star!
Soon will the Caucas now conceal me,There I shall not discovered beBy eyes and ears of paid, false sergeants—Who all do hear and all do see!
Clouds—ye eternal wanderers in hunting grounds of air,High o'er the verdant Steppes, wide through the blue of heaven—Coursing fraternal,—say, must ye exiled as IFrom the beloved North to the far South be driven?
O tell me, were ye outlawed thus by Fate's behest?Drives ye forth open hate, or secret grudge flee ye?Follows ye unappeased an evil-doer's curse?Are ye pursued by poisonous words of calumny?
Ah no! Only from the unfruitful earth ye fly;Free are your sufferings, your blessedness is free,Ye know not wretchedness that holds us here in chains,Know not the joy of home or exile's misery!
With love of my own race I cling unto my country,Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry;The shame alone of all her blood bought glory,Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride,And the ancestral faith's traditions dark,With woe have penetrated all my heart.
And yet I love it! Why, I cannot say;The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding,In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing—The flood's high water on all sides in May.By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness,Through the lone wilderness and village desolate,How hospitable shines the sole beam sparklingTo me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great,The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled highThe wagons silent standing take their nightly rest,On distant hills the silver birches I descry,Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest.Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant,I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant,The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again,The window panels carved, of varied stain.
Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested,Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd,Watching the villager,—young, happy, festive—And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse!
With wingéd footsteps now I hastenUnto the far cold North away,Kasbek,—thou watchman of the East,To thee, my farewell greetings say!
Since all eternity, a turbanSnow white, thy glorious brow has veiled,The peace sublime about thy glacierThe strife of man has ne'er assailed.
Accept my humble supplication,Hear thy submissive faithful son,To starry heights lift his entreatyTo Allah's everlasting throne.
I do implore—spice breathing coolnessThrough sultry sun-glow in the vale,A stone for rest unto the pilgrimIn whirling dust of desert gale.
Turn, I implore, the storm's hot hatred,The deadly thunderous lightning's course—In Dariel's wild pass protect meAnd my distracted, trembling horse.
Yet one prayer more my heart audacious,Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress,What if my native land forget meIn my sad exile's loneliness?
Will, greeting me by name familiar,My friend then open wide his arms?Will e'en my brothers recognise me,So changed by many griefs and harms?
Perchance my foot will fall profaningDust of those loved in youth's far day,The pure and noble, deeply trusted—Withered as Autumn leaves in May.
O Kasbek, then with earth o'erwhelm me!Snow o'er thy weary wanderer back,And blow away my dust and scatterAlong thy rock-ridged clefts lone track!
Soft singing at midnight through heaven's high blueA beautiful angel once flew;The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throngAttended his wonderful song!
He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coastsWhere live and exult the pure ghosts,Their songs glad extolling Almighty's graceRepeated from race unto race.
In his arms he was bearing a young soul below,To leave in this world of our woe,The strains of his singing within her soul beat—A wordless song, living and sweet!
Long languished her soul in its earthly abode,With a heavenly longing o'erflowed,For ne'er were those holy, pure strains of her birth,Effaced by the songs of the earth.
Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling,Image miraculous and merciful—of theeNot for my soul's health nor battles waged, beseeching,Nor yet with thanks or penitence o'erwhelming me!
Not for myself,—my heart with guilt o'erflowing—Who in my home land e'er a stranger has remained,No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing,That thou protect her innocence unstained!
Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her!Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side,A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil,A spirit where together peace and hope abide.
Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending,Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night—From out thy highest heaven, thy fairest angel sendingThe fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight!
A single sail is bleaching brightlyUpon the waves caressing bland,What seeks it in a stranger country?Why did it leave its native strand?When winds pipe high, load roar the billowsAnd with a crashing bends the mast,It does not shun its luckless fortune,Nor haste to port before the blast.To-day the sea is clear as azure,The sun shines gaily, faint the wind—But it revolting, looks for tempest,And dreams in storms its peace to find!
Lermontoff, being reproached by the critics of his time for imitation of Byron in this poem, defended himself by the following, "I am not Byron!"
I am not Byron—yet I amOne fore-elected, yet one moreUnknown, world-hunted wanderer,A Russian in my mood and mind.
Scant from my seed the corn was ripe,My mouth spoke young, was early hushed;In depths of my own soul, the wreckOf hope lies as in deep-sea sunk.
Who shall the counsels of the sea,Its awe sublime unloose? Who shallRead clear my spirit and my soul?Unless it be a Poet—no man!
Like an evil spirit hast thouShocked my heart from out its rest,If thou'lt take it quite away now—Thou wilt win my healing blest!
My heart thy temple evermore!Thy face,—the altar's Godhead sign!Not heaven's grace,—thy smiles, restore,Grant absolution, joy divine!
Afar—I fain, so much would tell thee!List to thee o'er and o'er when near;Yet passioned glances thou dost silence—My words bind to my lips in fear.How, by mere homely speaking, can IE'en hope to captivate thine ears?I swear it would be food for laughter—If it were not more fit for tears!
Dry leaf trembling on the branchesBefore the blast,Poor heart quaking in the bosomFor woe thou hast;Ah what matter if the wind then,Withered leaf from blooming lindenShould scatter wide?Would for this the twig or branchesHave wailing sighed?And should the lad his fate upbraid,Although he ignominious fade—And in an alien country die?Will for him the beauteous maidComplaining cry?
Sailless and without a rudder,On the ocean of the air—Float the choirs of stars harmonious,'Mid the mists eternal there;Fleecy flocks of clouds elusiveDrift across immensity,Leaving ne'er a track behind them,Following their destiny.Hour of parting, hour of meetingThey know not,—nor grief, nor rest—Theirs no longing for the future,Theirs no sorrow for the past.By thy day of anguish broken,Think of them and calm thy woe—Be indifferent as they areTo the pangs of earth below!
When faints the heart for sorrow,In life's hard, darkened hour,My spirit breathes a wondrous prayerFull of love's inward power.
There is a might inspiringEach consecrated word,That speaks the inconceivableAnd holy will of God.
The heavy load slips from my heart—Oppressing doubt takes flight,The soul believes, the tears break forth—And all is light, so light!
Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me,In that far distant home-land fair,Wast rooted in the mountain gravelOr sprung from some vale garden rare?
Once o'er the Jordan's silver billowsFond kissed with thee the Eastern sun?Have the grim gales 'neath starry heavensSwept over thee from Lebanon?
And was a trembling prayer soft whispered,A father's song sung over thee—When from the parent stem dis-severedBy some poor aborigine?
And is the palm tree ever standing,Amid the fierce glare beating down,The pilgrim in the desert luringTo shelter 'neath her shadow crown?
Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiverIn unappeaséd parting pain,The branch conceals a homesick longingFor desert wilderness again?
Was it a pilgrim who first brought theeTo the cold North, with pious hand?Who mused upon his home in sadness,And dost thou bear his tear's hot brand?
Was it Jehovah's favored warrior,His gleaming head transfigured bright,For God and man true-sworn, devotedUnto the victory of light?
Before the wonder-working imageThou stand'st as heaven's defence divine,O branch from out that holy country,The sanctuary's shield and sign!
It darkens, golden lamp light splendorsEnveil the cross, the sacred shrine—The peace of God is wafted o'er usFrom thee, oh branch of Palestine!
Once 'mid group of native mountainsHot dispute arose,Elbrus, angry, did with KasbekArgument propose."Now beware!" the hoary Elbrus,Warning did exclaim—"To enslave thee and enthrall theeIs man's evil aim!Smoking huts he will be buildingOn thy mountain side,Loudly through thy clefts resoundingRing his hatchet wide!The swift swinging iron shovelBreast of stone will part,Of thy bronze and stone will rob thee—Pierce thee to the heart.Caravans, e'en now, are passingThrough thy rocks afar,Where before the fogs were swimming—And the Eagle Tsar.Ah, mankind is bold and fearless!Dreads no lifted hand,Guard thee! populous and mightyIs the morning land!""Threatens me the East?" then queriedKasbek with disdain,"There eight centuries alreadySleeping, man has lain.See, in shadow the GrusineGloats in lustful greed,On his many coloured raimentGlints the winey bead!Drugged with fumes of his nargileh,Dreams the Mussulman—By the fountains on his divanSlumbers Teheran.See! Jerusalem is lyingAt his feet o'erthrown—Deathly dumb and lifeless staringAs an earthly tomb.And beyond the Nile is washingO'er the burning stepsOf the Kingly mausoleums,Yellow, shadowless.In his tent, the hunt forgotten—Now the Bedouin lies,Sings the old ancestral legends,Scans the starry skies.See! far as the eye can venture,All sleeps as before—No, the threat of dreaming OrientFrights me nevermore!""Laugh thou not too early, Kasbek,"Elbrus did persist—"Look! What vast mass is it turningNorthward, through the mist?"Secretly the heart of KasbekFaltered,—as amazed,Silent and with dark forebodingTo the North he gazed:Full of woe stared in the distance;What a thronging swarm!Hark! there rings the clash of weapons!Battle-cry alarm!From the Don unto the UralWhat a human sea!Regiments that wave and glitterPast all counting be!Feathers white like sedge of ocean,Waving in a gust—Many coloured Uhlans stormingThrough the blowing dust.The imperial battalionsDensely packed proceed,Trumpets flaring, banners flyingIn the victor's lead.Batteries with brasses rattlingConquering advance,With their blood-red splendor flashingCannon matches glance.And a battle-proved commanderLeads the army there—From whose eyes the lightning flashes,'Neath his snowy hair.Swells the host until as Griesbach'sBillows roaring loud,From the Eastward nears the armyAs a thunder cloud.Kasbek peered with sinister bodingThrough the clouds,—would fainCount his enemies approaching—Found it was in vain:Threw one glance unto the mountains—Anguished, overcome,O'er his brow drew close the vapours,Was forever dumb.
Brilliant heavens of evening,Distant stars clearly shining,Bright as the rapture of childhood,O why dare I send you nevermore greeting—Stars, who are shining as clear as my joy?What is thy sorrow?Mortals make question.This is my sorrow;The heavens and the stars are—heaven and stars ever,I am alas! but a perishing man!Forever mortalEnvies his neighbor;I envy ratherYe in your freedom, ye stars ever radiant,And only would be in your places!
Cold hears thy soul the praise or cursing of posterity.Quit of the human race, thou man of destiny!They only could o'erthrow, who thee did elevate—Forever thus remains thy greatness great!
He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,A sacrifice to slander's lust;The haughty Poet's head, the noblest,Bowed on his wounded breast in dust.No longer could his free soul sufferThe vulgar world's low infamy;He rose against the world's opinion,And as a hero, lone fell he.He fell! To what avail the sobbing—The useless choir of tears and praise?Wretched the stammering excuses!The Fates have spoke,—no power allays!Have ye not at all times togetherHis sacred genius baited sore,The silent fury fanned to flaming,Delighted in your work before?O be triumphant! Earthly tormentThe Poet soul did fully bear,Extinguished are the lights inspired,The laurel crown lies leafless there!The murderer contemptuous gazingDid stedfastly his weapon aim,No swifter beat his heart, Assassin!Nor shook his lifted hand for shame.No wonder; from a distance came heAs an adventurer unknown,For worthy title, star of order—Stood but his mad desire alone.Sneering and self-complacent mocked heThe rights and customs of our land,He could not understand our glory,Against which he has raised his hand.
"Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung,The Singer even as the song he sung;Who of a hot, heroic mood,In death disgraceful shed his blood!"[1]
Why did he leave his home life tranquil,To seek the envious market place,Where each free flame is suffocated,Expose him to the assassin base?The human breed, who had known betterSince earliest years of youth, than he—Why did he trust the false pretendingOf malice and hypocrisy?Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him,Gave him a martyr's crown instead,And now the cruel thorns have pierced himE'en to the blood of his proud head!His last days were for him envenomed—Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved,He died revenge a'thirst, accusingThat every hope his heart deceived!
Mute evermore the magic echoes,That ne'er shall wonders more reveal,The Poet's home is dark and narrow—Upon the Singer's lips a seal.
But ye, sons insolent and shameless—Defamers, faithless fathers, ye!Who trod the pure soul of anotherBeneath your feet, who zealouslyPress to the Tsar's throne with your drivelingFor fame and freedom, hatred steeled!Well may you sneer at truth and justice,The law provides you screen and shield,Only a higher law shall sentence!A mighty Judge beyond assailAvenge the Poet's death on his slayers,The Highest Judge who does not fail!So then calumniate with brazen courage,Your hatred's fury nought restrains—Since your dark blood could ne'er atone forOne drop within the Poet's pure veins.
LERMONTOFF. [1]These four lines are from Pushkin's own romantic poem, "Onegin."
Russia, O my Russia, hail!Steeds as tempests flying,Howling of the distant wolves,Eagles high, shrill crying!Hail, my Russia, hail! Hail high!Hail thy green forests proud,Hail thy silvery nightingales,Hail Steppes and wind and cloud!
When the church-village slumbersAnd the last songs are sung,When the grey mist arising,Is o'er the marshes hung,'Tis then the woods forsaking,Their way cross country taking,Nine howling wolves come hungering for food.
Behind the first,—the grey one,—Trot seven more of black,Close on their hoary leader;As rearguard of the packThe red wolf limps, all bloody,His paws with gore still ruddyAs after his companions grim he pants.
When through the village lurkingNought gives them check or fright,No watch dog dares to bellow,The peasant ghastly white,His breath can scarce be taking,His limbs withhold from shaking—While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips!
About the church they circleAnd softly slink awayTo prowl about the priest's farm,Then of a sudden theyAre round the drink shop turning,Fain some bad word be learning—From peasants drinking noisily within.
With fully thirteen bulletsThy weapon must be armed,And with a wad of goat's hair;Then thou wilt fight unharmed.Fire calmly,—and before allWill the leader, the grey, fall,The rest will surely follow one by one.
When the cock wakes the villageFrom out its morning dream,Thou wilt behold the corpses—Nine she-wolves by the stream!On the right lies the grey one,To left in frost the lame one—All bloody,—God pardon us sinners!