Produced by David Starner, Carol David and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
_Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_
THE KISS OF APOLLO
GABRIELLE AND OTHER POEMS.
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
RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS.
RUSSIAN LYRICS
SONGS OF COSSACK, LOVER,
PATRIOT AND PEASANT
_DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE_
BY
MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI
_Author of “Within the Hedge,” “The Cathedral,” “A Modern Prometheus,” “The Cuckoo’s Nest” etc_.
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
_To
“A soul of passion, mirth and tears_.”
CONTENTS
The Song of the Kazak………………………….. Pushkin Cradle Song of a Cossack Mother………………. Lermontoff The Dagger…………………………………. Lermontoff Don’t Give Me the Wine!……….(From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze) The Delibash………………………………….. Pushkin To the Don……………………………………. Pushkin The Caucas……………………………………. Pushkin The Cloister on Kasbek…………………………. Pushkin Goblins of the Steppes…………………………. Pushkin Under a Portrait of Jukowsky……………………. Pushkin The Vision……………………………………. Pushkin I Loved Thee………………………………….. Pushkin Serenade……………………………………… Pushkin A Winter Evening………………………………. Pushkin The Last Flower……………………………….. Pushkin Stanzas from “Onegin”
Our Northern Winter’s fickle Summer……………. Pushkin Sometimes He read Aloud with Olga……………… Pushkin Love Condescends to Every Altar……………….. Pushkin How Sad to Me is Thine Appearing………………. Pushkin The Memorial………………………………….. Pushkin Tamara…………………………………….. Lermontoff The Gift of the Terek……………………….. Lermontoff On Departure for the Caucas………………….. Lermontoff To the Clouds………………………………. Lermontoff To My Country………………………………. Lermontoff To Kasbek………………………………….. Lermontoff The Angel………………………………….. Lermontoff A Prayer…………………………………… Lermontoff The Sail…………………………………… Lermontoff I Am Not Byron……………………………… Lermontoff Like An Evil Spirit…………………………. Lermontoff To A.C.S…………………………………… Lermontoff A Song…………………………………….. Lermontoff From Demon…………………………………. Lermontoff The Prayer…………………………………. Lermontoff The Palm Branch of Palestine…………………. Lermontoff The Dispute………………………………… Lermontoff Heaven and the Stars………………………… Lermontoff On Napoleon’s Death…………………………. Lermontoff On the Death of Pushkin……………………… Lermontoff Russia, O My Russia, Hail!……………………… Tolstoy The Wolves……………………………………. Tolstoy Autumn……………………………………….. Tolstoy Burnt Out Is Now My Misery……………………… Tolstoy In Hours of Ebbing Tide………………………… Tolstoy Swans…………………………………………. Maikow To Sleep………………………………………. Maikow In Memory of My Daughter………………………… Maikow Mother and Child……………………………….. Maikow An Easter Greeting……………………………… Maikow At Easter……………………………………… Maikow O Mountains of My Native Country!………………… Maikow The Aeolian Harp……………………………….. Maikow Ye Songs of Mine!……………………………. Nekrassow In War……………………………………… Nekrassow A Song of Siberian Exiles…………………….. Nekrassow Freedom…………………………………….. Nekrassow A Farewell………………………………….. Nekrassow The Love Letter……………………………… Nekrassow What the Sleepless Grandam Thinks……………… Nekrassow To Russia…………………………………….. Nikitin The Song of the Spendthrift…………………….. Nikitin The Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould……. Nikitin Gossip……………………………………….. Nikitin In a Peasant Hut………………………………. Nikitin Winter Night in the Village…………………….. Nikitin The Birch Tree………………………………… Nikitin North and South……………………………….. Nikitin Hunger……………………………………….. Fofanow Faded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden……… Fofanow The Beggar……………………………………. Fofanow With Roses…………………. (From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze) The Stars……….. (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine) Whispers and the Timid Breathing………. (“Fete Chenchine”) The Tales of the Stars………………………… Fofanow One Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love…………….. (Gipsy Song) A Gipsy Song…………………………………. Polonsky At Last…………………………………… Plestcheeff By An Open Window…………….. The Grand Duke Constantine With the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!…. Nadson The Poet………………………………………. Nadson To the Muse……………………………………. Nadson A Fragment…………………………………….. Nadson In May………………………………………… Nadson In Memory of N.M.D……………………………… Nadson At the Grave of N.M.D…………………………… Nadson In Dreams……………………………………… Nadson The Old Grey House……………………………… Nadson Call Him Not Dead,–He Lives!……………………. Nadson
Brief Biographical Notes:
Alexander Sergjewitsch Pushkin
Michail Jurjewitsch Lermontoff
Count Alexis Constantinowitsch Tolstoy Apollon Nikolajewitsch Maikow
Nikolai Alexajewitsch Nekrassow
Ivan Ssawitsch Nikitin
Constantine Michailowitsch Fofanow Semijon 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.
M.G.D.B.
RUSSIAN LYRICS AND
COSSACK SONGS
THE SONG OF THE KAZAK
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 pressed His steed the raging stream must breast!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
With him a mighty power brings,
To win the honour of his land
Kazak his life unheeding flings–
Till fame of him eternal sings!
Kazak brought all Siberia
At 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 pressed His steed the raging stream must breast!
PUSHKIN.
_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half–Kazak_.
CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER
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 pebbles
Blusters through the vale,
On its shores the little Khirgez
Whets 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 silken
Sadly 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 chamber
Blinding tears will flow,
Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one,
Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I’ll wait lamenting
As the days go by,
Ardent for thee praying,–fearing
In 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!
LERMONTOFF.
THE DAGGER
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-dewed With 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!
LERMONTOFF.
DON’T GIVE ME THE WINE!
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 betray All 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 drink But one drop of the wine;–if you please Give 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_.
THE DELIBASH
With the hostile camp in skirmish
Our 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 speed
With his scimitar he’ll sever
From 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!
PUSHKIN.
_Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur_.
TO THE DON
Through the Steppes, see there he glances! Silent flood glad hailed by me,–
Thy far distant sons do proffer
Through me, greeting fond to thee!
Every stream knows thee as brother,
Don, thou river boasted wide!
The Araxes and Euphrates
Send 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 thee
Thy true warriors bold and free– Let thy vineyard’s foaming bubbles
In the glass be spilled to thee!
PUSHKIN.
_The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack_.
THE CAUCAS
The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand where Glaciers 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 flora And 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 beast At 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.
PUSHKIN.
THE CLOISTER ON KASBEK
KASBEK, thy regal canopy
High o’er all peaks revealed I see By 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 cloisters Near thy Creator ever be!
PUSHKIN.
GOBLINS OP THE STEPPES
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 plastered Can no longer see the road!
Lost all trace of our direction,
Sir, what now? The goblins draw
Us 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 horses
Onward to the black abyss!
In the darkness, like a paling
One stands forth,–and now I see
Him 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 grimace
Now the spirit band surround!
In an endless long procession,
Formless, countless of their kind
Circle us in flying coveys
Like 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 straying
Showers of snowflakes whirling white, And the pallid moonbeams waning–
Sad the heavens, sad the night!
Cloudward course the evil spirits
In unceasing phantom bands,
And their moaning and bewailing
Grip my heart with icy hands!
PUSHKIN.
UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY
The charm and sweetness of his magic verse Will 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.
PUSHKIN.
_Jukowsky was a Russian poet_.
THE VISION
I remember a marvellous instant,
Unto me bending down from above,
Thy radiant vision appearing
As 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 tempests My 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!
PUSHKIN.
I LOVED THEE
I loved thee; and perchance until this moment Within 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!
PUSHKIN.
A SERENADE
I watch Inesilla
Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
In 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 thee
Guitar tones so light?
The argus-eyed greybeard
My swift sword shall smite.
The ladder of ropes
Throw me fearlessly now!
Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet,
Been false to thy vow?
I watch Inesilla
Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
In night’s dusky sheath!
PUSHKIN.
A WINTER EVENING
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 tempest
Closed thine eyelids wearily?
Has the spinning wheel’s soft whirring Hummed 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 careless
Birds live in a distant land–
Sing the song of maids at morning
Meeting 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!
PUSHKIN.
THE LAST FLOWER
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 inspire
More than the moments when we meet!
PUSHKIN.
THE COMING OF THE WINTER
_Stanzas from “Onegin”_
Our Northern Winter’s fickle Summer,
Than Southern Winter scarce more bland– Is undeniably withdrawing
On 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 tone
The forest drops its shadow leafage; Upon the fields the mists lie white,
In lusty caravans the wild geese
Now 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 takes
His way in haste beyond the mountains! And though no longer when day breaks
Forth from their stalls the herd begins To drive the kine,–his noon-day horn recalls. The peasant maiden sings and spins,
Before her crackling, flaming bright The pine chips,–friend of Winter night.
And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles And spreads its silver o’er the fields,
Alas! the golden days are vanished! Reluctant Nature mournful yields.
The stream with ice all frozen over Gleams as some fashionable parquet,
And thronging hordes of boyish skaters Sweep forward on its crystal way.
On her red claws despondent swimming, The plump goose parts the water cold,
Then on the ice with caution stalking She slips and tumbles,–ah behold!
Now the first snowflake idling down Stars the depressing landscape brown.
At such a season in the country,
What can a man’s amusements be?
Walk? And but more of empty highway And 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 away
So doth the Winter too delay.
PUSHKIN.
_[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_.]
FROM “ONEGIN”
Sometimes he read aloud with Olga
A 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 storm
Captured her castle with his pawn!
PUSHKIN.
FROM “ONEGIN”
Love condescends to every altar,
Ah when in hearts of youth it springs, Its coming brings such glad refreshment
As May rain o’er the pasture flings! Lifted from passion’s melancholy
The life breaks forth in fairer flower, The soul receives a new enrichment–
Fruition sweet and full of power.
But when on later altars arid
It downward sweeps, about us flows– Love leaves behind such deathly traces
As Autumn tempests where it blows
To strip the woods with ruthless hand, And turn to soggy waste the land!
PUSHKIN.
FROM “ONEGIN”
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 spirit
From the earth’s rustic lap I feel
Again 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 despondence To one past passion as past strife,
All is but prose to such as he,
Wearied unto satiety.
Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed That which in Autumn drooped and pined,
Now radiant in verdure springing,
Since it must of our loss remind;
As with a tortured soul we realize
In 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 country And for a night beside the sea!
PUSHKIN.
THE MEMORIAL
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 pillar The Emperor Alexander hath!
I shall not vanish wholly,–No! but young forever My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring, And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance While 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!
PUSHKIN.
_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_.
TAMARA
Where waves of the Terek are waltzing In Dariel’s wickedest pass,
There rises from bleakest of storm crags An 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 fires Gleamed 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 opened By 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 mountains The sun tore the night’s veiling soft,
There reigned anew only the silence On turret and casement aloft.
And only the Terek bewailing
With fury broke in on the hush,
As dashing her billows on billows
Her 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 rapture
Did promise of meeting repeat!
LERMONTOFF.
[_Tamara is the Russian Lorelei. The ruins of her castle are still shown in the pass of Darjal on the famous Georgian Road_.]
THE GIFT OF THE TEREK
Through the rocks in wildest courses
Seethes 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 fawning
Speaks 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 fury
Lies 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 Carabineer
Who has fallen in the fray.
How his coat of mail is gleaming
Silver on the billows’ span!
Golden on his trappings shining
Blessing of the Alcoran!
Menacing the one who slew him
Scowls the brow’s relentless feud, By his noble life blood crimsoned
O’er his lips his hair is glued.
Through the half-closed eyelids glancing Still the lust of quarrel mocks,
From his head deep underneath him
Flow the matted raven locks.”
Motionless upon her beaches
Did the grey Sea still remain,
And the Terek foaming yellow
In displeasure spoke again.
“So then, take him as a present,
As I nothing fairer know
On this round earth,–for thee only This rare prize I’ve guarded so!
‘Tis a mountain Cossack’s body
Wafted ‘mid my billows’ dance,
See his hair,–no silk is softer–
See his shoulder’s gold expanse!
See how o’er his red lips speechless
Now the seated eyes find rest;
Trickling yet the purple life blood From 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 country
Rode he forth with boding grey,
‘Neath the dagger of the Tscherkes
He has breathed his soul away.”
And the Terek paused; behold now
In the gleaming foam flood drowned, Silvered in the spraying billows
Dips a head with rushes crowned.
And the hoary one’s lips whisper
Haughty words of youthful fire,
And the eyes lit with love lustre
Flame with passionate desire.
Foaming, rushing on swift longing,
Seethed he up in youthful zest–
And the Terek flood was wedded
With him in embraces blest.
LERMONTOFF.
ON DEPARTURE FOR THE CAUCAS
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 be
By eyes and ears of paid, false sergeants– Who all do hear and all do see!
LERMONTOFF.
TO THE CLOUDS
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 I From 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!
LERMONTOFF.
TO MY COUNTRY
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 sparkling To me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great, The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled high The 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!
LERMONTOFF.
TO KASBEK
With winged footsteps now I hasten
Unto the far cold North away,
Kasbek,–thou watchman of the East, To thee, my farewell greetings say!
Since all eternity, a turban
Snow white, thy glorious brow has veiled, The peace sublime about thy glacier
The strife of man has ne’er assailed.
Accept my humble supplication,
Hear thy submissive faithful son,
To starry heights lift his entreaty To Allah’s everlasting throne.
I do implore–spice breathing coolness Through sultry sun-glow in the vale,
A stone for rest unto the pilgrim
In 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 me
And my distracted, trembling horse.
Yet one prayer more my heart audacious, Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress,
What if my native land forget me
In 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 profaning Dust 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 scatter
Along thy rock-ridged clefts lone track!
LERMONTOFF.
THE ANGEL
Soft singing at midnight through heaven’s high blue A beautiful angel once flew;
The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng Attended his wonderful song!
He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coasts Where live and exult the pure ghosts,
Their songs glad extolling Almighty’s grace Repeated 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.
LERMONTOFF.
A PRAYER
Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling, Image miraculous and merciful–of thee
Not 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 sending The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight!
LERMONTOFF.
THE SAIL
A single sail is bleaching brightly
Upon 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 billows And 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.
_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
I am not Byron–yet I am
One fore-elected, yet one more
Unknown, 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 wreck Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk.
Who shall the counsels of the sea,
Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall
Read clear my spirit and my soul?
Unless it be a Poet–no man!
LERMONTOFF.
LIKE AN EVIL SPIRIT
Like an evil spirit hast thou
Shocked 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!
LERMONTOFF.
TO A.C.S.
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 I E’en hope to captivate thine ears?
I swear it would be food for laughter– If it were not more fit for tears!
LERMONTOFF.
A SONG
Dry leaf trembling on the branches
Before the blast,
Poor heart quaking in the bosom
For woe thou hast;
Ah what matter if the wind then,
Withered leaf from blooming linden Should scatter wide?
Would for this the twig or branches Have wailing sighed?
And should the lad his fate upbraid, Although he ignominious fade–
And in an alien country die?
Will for him the beauteous maid
Complaining cry?
LERMONTOFF.
FROM “DEMON”
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 elusive
Drift across immensity,
Leaving ne’er a track behind them,
Following their destiny.
Hour of parting, hour of meeting
They 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 are
To the pangs of earth below!
LERMONTOFF.
THE PRAYER
When faints the heart for sorrow,
In life’s hard, darkened hour,
My spirit breathes a wondrous prayer Full of love’s inward power.
There is a might inspiring
Each consecrated word,
That speaks the inconceivable
And 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!
LERMONTOFF.
THE PALM BRANCH OF PALESTINE
Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me, In that far distant home-land fair,
Wast rooted in the mountain gravel
Or sprung from some vale garden rare?
Once o’er the Jordan’s silver billows Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun?
Have the grim gales ‘neath starry heavens Swept over thee from Lebanon?
And was a trembling prayer soft whispered, A father’s song sung over thee–
When from the parent stem dis-severed By some poor aborigine?
And is the palm tree ever standing,
Amid the fierce glare beating down, The pilgrim in the desert luring
To shelter ‘neath her shadow crown?
Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiver
In unappeased parting pain,
The branch conceals a homesick longing For desert wilderness again?
Was it a pilgrim who first brought thee To 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, devoted
Unto the victory of light?
Before the wonder-working image
Thou 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 splendors Enveil the cross, the sacred shrine–
The peace of God is wafted o’er us
From thee, oh branch of Palestine!
LERMONTOFF.
THE DISPUTE
Once ‘mid group of native mountains
Hot dispute arose,
Elbrus, angry, did with Kasbek
Argument propose.
“Now beware!” the hoary Elbrus,
Warning did exclaim–
“To enslave thee and enthrall thee
Is man’s evil aim!
Smoking huts he will be building
On thy mountain side,
Loudly through thy clefts resounding Ring his hatchet wide!
The swift swinging iron shovel
Breast of stone will part,
Of thy bronze and stone will rob thee– Pierce thee to the heart.
Caravans, e’en now, are passing
Through 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 mighty
Is the morning land!”
“Threatens me the East?” then queried Kasbek with disdain,
“There eight centuries already
Sleeping, man has lain.
See, in shadow the Grusine
Gloats in lustful greed,
On his many coloured raiment
Glints the winey bead!
Drugged with fumes of his nargileh, Dreams the Mussulman–
By the fountains on his divan
Slumbers Teheran.
See! Jerusalem is lying
At his feet o’erthrown–
Deathly dumb and lifeless staring
As an earthly tomb.
And beyond the Nile is washing
O’er the burning steps
Of 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 Orient
Frights me nevermore!”
“Laugh thou not too early, Kasbek,” Elbrus did persist–
“Look! What vast mass is it turning Northward, through the mist?”
Secretly the heart of Kasbek
Faltered,–as amazed,
Silent and with dark foreboding
To 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 Ural
What a human sea!
Regiments that wave and glitter
Past all counting be!
Feathers white like sedge of ocean, Waving in a gust–
Many coloured Uhlans storming
Through the blowing dust.
The imperial battalions
Densely packed proceed,
Trumpets flaring, banners flying
In the victor’s lead.
Batteries with brasses rattling
Conquering advance,
With their blood-red splendor flashing Cannon matches glance.
And a battle-proved commander
Leads the army there–
From whose eyes the lightning flashes, ‘Neath his snowy hair.
Swells the host until as Griesbach’s Billows roaring loud,
From the Eastward nears the army
As a thunder cloud.
Kasbek peered with sinister boding
Through the clouds,–would fain
Count 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.
LERMONTOFF.
HEAVEN AND THE STARS
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 mortal
Envies his neighbor;
I envy rather
Ye in your freedom, ye stars ever radiant, And only would be in your places!
LERMONTOFF.
ON NAPOLEON’S DEATH
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!
LERMONTOFF.
ON THE DEATH OF PUSHKIN
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 suffer The 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 together
His sacred genius baited sore,
The silent fury fanned to flaming,
Delighted in your work before?
O be triumphant! Earthly torment
The Poet soul did fully bear,
Extinguished are the lights inspired, The laurel crown lies leafless there!
The murderer contemptuous gazing
Did stedfastly his weapon aim,
No swifter beat his heart, Assassin! Nor shook his lifted hand for shame.
No wonder; from a distance came he
As an adventurer unknown,
For worthy title, star of order–
Stood but his mad desire alone.
Sneering and self-complacent mocked he The 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 better Since earliest years of youth, than he– Why did he trust the false pretending
Of 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 him E’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, accusing
That 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 another
Beneath your feet, who zealously
Press to the Tsar’s throne with your driveling For 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 assail
Avenge 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 for One 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!
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!
TOLSTOY.
THE WOLVES
When the church-village slumbers
And 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 pack
The red wolf limps, all bloody,
His paws with gore still ruddy
As after his companions grim he pants.
When through the village lurking
Nought 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 circle
And softly slink away
To prowl about the priest’s farm,
Then of a sudden they
Are round the drink shop turning,
Fain some bad word be learning–
From peasants drinking noisily within.
With fully thirteen bullets
Thy weapon must be armed,
And with a wad of goat’s hair;
Then thou wilt fight unharmed.
Fire calmly,–and before all
Will the leader, the grey, fall,
The rest will surely follow one by one.
When the cock wakes the village
From 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!
TOLSTOY.
AUTUMN
Autumn ’tis! Our garden stands
Flowerless and bare,
Dizzy whirling yellow leaves
Fill the wind swept air.
Yet the distant mountain ash
In the vale below,
With our favorite berries red
Now begins to glow.
While with rapture and with pain
Throbbing 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 thee
How dear thou art to me!
TOLSTOY.
BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY
Burnt out is now my misery–
love’s yearning
No 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 trouble Thy happiness,–nor more my blood inflames my veins, It is not turned to ice ‘neath snowy cover, But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover Always with soul of ardour true remains.
So in their rapid fury mountain torrents That 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!
TOLSTOY.
IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE
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 sorrow I swear I am no longer true to thee!
The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy, From far away, with joy, to the beloved shore; And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more, Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee!
TOLSTOY.
SWANS
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!
MAIKOW.
TO SLEEP
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 grown By 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 tresses And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses!
MAIKOW.
IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER
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; straightway Will ope her pretty eyes,–glad she
Will 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 white
O’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 oft
She 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!
MAIKOW.
MOTHER AND CHILD
“Mother, why weepest thou ever
For 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 angels
There, rejoicing sing to Him!”
Forth from the sunset’s rosy fires
Now cometh the midnight dim.
Ah, the mother wants her baby–
That she watched from the window wide, When ‘mid butterflies and blossoms
She played in the meadow’s pride!
MAIKOW.
AN EASTER GREETING
The lark at sunrise trills it high–
The greeting Christ is risen!
And through the wood the black-bird pipes The greeting Christ is risen!
Beneath the eaves the swallows cry
The greeting Christ is risen!
Throughout the world man’s heart proclaims The greeting Christ is risen!
And echo answers from the grave
In truth, yes, He is risen!
MAIKOW.
AT EASTER
Drawing near the Easter Sunday
With 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!
MAIKOW.
_The religious custom of the Easter-greeting kiss prevails throughout Russia_.
O MOUNTAINS OF MY NATIVE COUNTRY!
“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!”
MAIKOW.
THE AEOLIAN HARP
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 numb Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow, Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb Their 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 ringing To greet the Godly power that promises new life!
MAIKOW.
YE SONGS OF MINE!
Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows A living witness ye;
Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing Tempestuous and free,
The hard heart of humanity assailing As doth her cliffs the sea!
NEKRASSOW.
IN WAR