SPECIMENS VIS SiWMlAll fSlfei Dr>i?TT^TXT.T^r ulgencc than PRELIMINARY REMAIv b object to BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. TRANSLATED _d of BY JOHN BOWRING, F. L. S. .o ascer- " *iitroduce to c other countries. .___ srpreter, would nt. BOSTON : PUBLISHED RY OUMMINGS AND HILHAHJ). Hilliard & Metealf, Printers. 1823. «/3W? 6 ' s ^* ADVERTISEMENT. Thts book solicits more indulgence than It is likely to obtain. It is not its object to secure eulogies for the poets of Russia, but to exhibit in its different characteristics one branch of the infant literature of an extraor- dinary and powerful nation ; — to remove in some degree the too general ignorance which prevails in this country, as to the state of letters in the north of Europe, — and to ascer- tain how far similar efforts to introduce to English readers the bards of other countries, who have as yet found no interpreter, would probably meet with encouragement. ■ ^ / Vll I bore ye from the regions of the north, Where ye first blossom'd, flowers of poetry ! Now light your smiles and pour your incense forth Beneath our Albion's more benignant sky. I cull'd your garlands 'neath the Polar star, From the vast fields of everlasting snow, Adventurous I transplant your beauties far : — Still breathe in fragrance, still in beauty glow. Within our temple many a holy wreath, Hallowed by genius and by time, is hung : At our old altar many a bard has sung, Whose music vibrates from the realms of death. I may not link your lowlier names with theirs — The giants of past ages : — but to bring To our Parnassus one delightful thing, Would gild my hopes and answer all my prayers. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Introduction - xi Derzhavin - - - - 1 Batiushkov - 43 Lomonosov 63 Zhukovsky - - - - 71 Karamsin - 103 Dmitriev - - - - 117 Krflov 129 Khemnitzer - - - 135 Bobrov - - - - - 145 Bogdanovich - - - 163 Davidov - - - - - 175 Kostrov - - - - 179 Neledinsky Meletzky - - 1S3 National Songs - - - 192 Biographical and Critical Notices 199 Death of Ossian (from the Dutch) 236 INTRODUCTION. When the subject of this volume occupied my attention, my plan was an extensive one. I designed to write a general history of Rus- sian literature. It seemed a most interesting object to trace the progress of letters in a country which had emerged, as it were in- stantaneously, from a night of barbarism, to occupy a situation in the world of intellect, not contemptible, even when compared with that of southern nations ; but singularly strik- ing as contrasted with the almost universal ignorance which pervaded the immense em- pire of the Tzars before Peter the Great gave it the first impulse towards civilization. That purpose I have not wholly abandoned ; but I have deemed it desirable, as a prior Xll INTRODUCTION. step, to publish a few translations of the poetry of a people, the political influence of whose government on the rest of Europe has been long moving with gigantic strides, and will soon be more sensibly felt. If they are deemed deserving of attention, some de- sire will perhaps be excited to know more about their authors ; but should these speci- mens be considered worthless, little curiosity can be felt to ascertain how, and when, and by whom they were written. Lomonosov* is the father of Russian po- etry. It did not advance from step to step through various gradations of improvement, but received from his extraordinary genius an elevation and a purity, which are singularly opposed to the barbarous compositions which preceded him. His works have been collected into six volumes ; and his name, as well as that of his rival, Somorokov, has already found * or Broken Nose. INTRODUCTION. XU1 its way, with some particulars of his life and writings, into our biographical dictionaries.* Somorokov, whose productions are very voluminous, and were once considered models of grace, beauty, and harmony, has been much neglected of late years. His dramatic compositions are, for the most part, gross and indecent ; his contemptuous jealousy of Lomo- nosov, though so greatly his superior, is often most ridiculously intruding itself; but in one point of view, at least, he is entitled to respect and gratitude. He is the eldest of the Russian fabulists ; the introducer of a species of com- position, in which Russian poetry possesses treasures more varied and more valuable than ■■ Under the engravings of Lomonosov an eulogium is gen- erally found, of which the following is a translation : Where Winter sits upon his throne of snow, Thus spoke the bright Parnassian Deity ; " Another Pindar is created now, The king of bards, the lord of music, he." 9md Russia's bosom heaved with holy glow — •' My Lomonosov ! Pindar lives in thee !" o XIV INTRODUCTION. that of any other nation. It is no mean praise to say, and it may be said truly, that Russia can produce more than one rival of the de- lightful La Fontaine. Of the dramatic writ- ings of Somorokov, the best is the tragedy De- viltry Samosvanetz, or The False Demetrius.* Von Visin, who seems to have made Mo- liere his model, improved greatly upon So- morokov. His two most celebrated comedies are Nedorosl, The Spoilt Youth, and Brigadir, The Brigadier. f Kheraskov holds a hi°h rank anions: the lyric poets of Russia. He died a few years ago. He was curator of the Moscow University. He published a collection of his poems, which * The history of this extraordinary man may be found at length in Coxe's travels, ii. 36(5 — 393. tl do not feel myself qualified to give an opinion on the present state of the Russian stage : but the translations repre- sented there from the French and German drama arc of ac- knowledged merit ; and many original pieces have been of late produced, of which their literary men speak with gr< delisrht and even enthusiasm. INTRODUCTION. XV he entitled Bakhariana, ill Neisviestnij ; Bach- ariana, or The Unknown ; but his great work is Rossiada, Hi Rasrushchenie Kasanij ; The Russiad, or The Destruction of Kasan. But of all the poets of Russia, Derzliavin is, in my conception, entitled to the very first place. His compositions breathe a high and sublime spirit ; they are full of inspiration. His versification is sonorous, original, charac- teristic ; his subjects generally such as allowed him to give full scope to his ardent imagina- tion and lofty conceptions. Of modern poets, he most resembles Klopstock : his Oda Bog, Ode on God, with the exception of some of the wonderful passages of the Old Testament, " written with a pen of fire," and glowing with the brightness of heaven, passages of which Derzhavin has frequently availed himself, is one of the most impressive and sublime ad- dresses I am acquainted with, on a subject so pre-eminently impressive and sublime. The first poem which excited the public attention to him was his Felizia. XVI INTRODUCTION. Bogdanovich has obtained the title of the Russian Anacreon. His Dushenka (Psyche) is a graceful and lovely poem. He has also written several dramatic pieces. Bobrov was well acquainted with the litera- ture of the South of Europe, and has trans- fused many of its beauties into his native tongue. Our English writers especially have given great assistance to his honest plagiarism. His Kliersonida, an oriental epic poem, is not so good as Lalla Rookh, hut it is very good notwithstanding. The name of Kostrov closes the list of the most eminent among the deceased poets of Russia. He died, not long ago, in the merid- ian of his days. He had made an admirable translation of Homer, and was engaged in a version of Ossian, which he left unfinished : the conclusion has since been added by Gniedich. Of all the living writers of Russia, or rath- er of all the writers Russia ever produced. the most successful and the most popular is Karamsin. Derzhavin called him Ions ago INTRODUCTION. XVII " the nightingale of poetry," but it is not to his poetry alone that he owes his fame. Stand- ing on the summit of modern literature in Russia, he has been loaded with honours and distinctions, which, however, have not served to check his wonted urbanity, or to chill his natural goodness of heart. When a young writer, he was fond of imitating Sterne ;* a very bad model, it may be added, since the peculiarities which characterize him are only tolerable, because they are original. Karam- sin's style was then usually abrupt and unnat- ural, and its sentimentality wearisome and affected. But he has outlived his errors, and established his reputation on their subjection. His great undertaking, the Rossijskaje htorije (History of Russia) is, without comparison, the first and best literary work which has been produced in the country it celebrates. It was received with loud eulogiums throughout * Especially in his Puteshestvennik, (or Traveller.) 2* XV1H INTRODUCTION'. the Russian empire ; it has been translated iiito several European languages, and will probably long maintain a pre-eminent rank among R issian classics, and become one of the standard authorities of history.* The peculiar excellence of the Russian fab- ulists has been mentioned. Somorokov and Khemnitzer, Dmitriev and Krilor, are the most distinguished among them. Dmitriev, who is still living at Moscow, has published a great number of fables and ballads. His style is easy, harmonious, and energetic ; some of his compositions have a sublimer character ; his religious poetry is dignified and solemn ; his elegies are tender and affecting. *The German translation is faithful, but heavy and ill-writ- ten. The French, tolerably written, perhaps, but miserably incorrect; Karamsin told me he had discovered two hundred errors in the first volume alone. The Italian is a rendering from the French. As a proof of the estimation in which Ka- ramsin is held, I may mention that I learned at Petersburg, that several thousand copies of this voluminous work were distrib- uted in a few weeks ; and it was said, the author received fifty thousand rubles for the copy-right of the second edition. INTRODUCTION. XlX Krilov holds an office in the imperial libra- ry at Petersburg. He is well known to the bons vivans of the English club. His heavy and unwieldy appearance is singularly con- trasted with the shrewdness and the grace of his writings. He has published one volume of fables, remarkable for their spirit and origin- ality. He now employs himself in translat- ing Herodotus, having, at an advanced period of life, first entered on the study of the lan- guages of ancient Greece and Rome. Zhukovskij has printed some poetical trans- lations of peculiar excellence. His Liudmilla (an imitation of Leonora) is deemed more beau- tiful and forcible than the original itself. Bur- ger appears to have captivated him. He has written on a variety of subjects, and is now engaged as a companion to the Grand Dukes. I believe Batiushkov is now in Italy. His most celebrated composition is his Address to his Penates, which will be found in the present volume. As it introduces in a very XX INTRODUCTION. agreeable manner the most eminent of the Russian poets, and contains some allusion to Russian manners, it will not, I hope, be with- out interest to the English reader. These translations are printed under a humbling sense of their many imperfections. No one can be more alive than myself to the extreme difficulty of communicating to a fo- reign version the peculiar characters of the original. The grace, the harmony, the happy arrangement, the striking adaptation of words to ideas ; every thing in fact, except the pri- mary and naked thought, requires for its per- fect communication a genius equal to its first conception : and indeed the fate of translators, who have in general had all their merits put to the account of their author, and all their de- fects unsparingly to their own, might well alarm new adventurers from this perilous sea. One thing, however, is certain ; I have in- tended no wrong, — I hope I have done no wrong, to the names and to the works I now INTRODUCTION. XXI introduce to my countrymen ; I mean only to be an honest, conscientious interpreter. Many of the charms of their compositions have prob- ably escaped me: their faults, I am afraid, are but too faithfully rendered ; I have discov- ered many, but I dared not meddle with them. The measure of the original has been gen- erally preserved. This adhesion to one of the distinguishing characters of poetical composi- tion has been made of late quite a point of con- science in Germany (a country which possesses a greater number of excellent and faithful translations than all the united world besides ;) and as far as the genius of the language will admit, I hope it will become so in England.* * The merits of Shakspeare were never fully recognised till he was clad in garments something like his own. There is generally no idea in this country of tiic sublime and imposing character of the writings of Klopstock, for they have never been presented to us in any thing like their original form. If any one wish to study the freezing eifect of a translation made in conformity to what are called the prejudices, or the XX11 INTRODUCTION. A few words on the peculiarities of the Rus- sian language will not, perhaps, be misplaced.* The mother-tongue of nearly forty millions of human beings, and which in the course of thirteen centuries has undergone no radical change, is indeed entitled to some attention. All Russian grammarians claim for it an antiquity at least equal to that of the city of Novogo- rod. The oldest written documents that exist are two treaties with the Greek emperors, made by Oleg, A. D. 912, and Igor, A. D. 943. Christianity, introduced into Russia at the be- ginning of the eleventh century by Vladimir habits of a people, let him read the Hamlet of Moratin ; a man confessedly of extraordinary talent ; a dramatic writer of most distinguished success, and who has preserved a gen- eral faithfulness to the sense of his author, even in this trans- lation ; let him compare this, or any of the plays of Le Tour- neur, or the choicest passages of Ducis, with ten lines taken at random from Voss, or Schlegel, and the argument will be fully understood. *It is a remarkable fact, that the first Russian Grammar ever published was published in England. It was entitled C. W. Ludolii Grammalica Russica, qui conlinet et manuduc- tivntm yuandam ad Grammaticam Sclavonicam. Oxon. 1696 INTRODUCTION. XX1U the Great, brought with it many words of Greek origin. The Tartars added greatly to the vocabulary during the two centuries of their domination. The intercourse which Peter the Great established with foreign nations, in- creased it still more ; and of late years a great number of words have been amalgamated with it from the French, German, and English. It is now one of the richest, if not the richest, of all the European languages, and contains a multitude of words which can only be express- ed by compounds and redundant definitions in any northern tongues. Schlozer calculates, that of the five hundred roots on which the mo- dern Russ is raised, three-fourths of the num- ber are derived from Greek, Latin, and Ger- man. Many are of Sans-crit origin, of which Adelung published a list in 1811.* Printing was introduced into Russia about the middle of the sixteenth century. The oldest printed book which has been discovered ■ Rapports enlre Its Langues Rv.ssc tt Sam-rrile. XXIV INTRODUCTION. is a Sclavonic Psalter, bearing the date Kiev, 1551 ; two years after, a press was established in Moscow. The Sclavonic alphabet, said to have been introduced by Cyrillus in the ninth century, consists of forty-two letters. The modern Russ has only thirty-five : those un- known to the English are as follows : Letters. Sounds and Orthography adopted . ph. Xf • • . kh (guttural.) -TJ • • • tz. \[ ... ch (hard, as in chance.) HI • sh. JTJJ . . . shtsh, or shch. * I have adopted dt to convey the sound of this teller, though it is sometimes rendered by j ; it is nearly equivalent to the French j, as in jar din, jaunt; or to s and s in the English words measure, vision, azure. t A strong guttural ; the Greek y,. t This i^ the letter which disfigures Russian words so much INTRODUCTION. H* • . i (dull i.) h t • terminal. h t . . ditto. !B § • 03. K)|| - . iu. Ji . je. XXV when written in Roman characters. " I defend," whicli has but seven letters in the original, is thus conveyed by fourteen — sashchishchaju ; and much more awkwardly in the German system of orthography by twenty — saschtschischtschajit . Its exact sound may be produced by connecting together the two last syllables of the words establis/;/-c/mrch. * The shiblohth of the Russian alphabet. It is hardly ever well pronounced by foreigners. It is a deep, indistinct artic- ulation, something like i in bill. \ A mere expletive ; and yet so common that SchlOzer says, to abandon it would diminish the trouble and expense of writ- ing and printing five per cent. It occurs, on an average, fifty times among a thousand letters. It can only be used as the termination of a syllable or a word. t This letter, which is also a terminal, gives to the conso- nant that precedes it the sound which the French call mmdlU l as in ai\\e agneau; like gn or gl in Italian; in Spanish the n or 11. I have adopted an apostrophe ' when it is introduced. §The close e of the French. || The English (/, asin union, universe, always pronounced iu. XXVI INTRODUCTION. Besides these, there are several letter* Which seem almost identical as to sound : E and 9 * . . -for e. H — It . - • - i- c — 3t • • • — »■ Of the above, III appears a compound of III and i[. K) I - Y. fl I - E. (theta) and "\f (npsilon) form a part of the Russian alphabet, but are seldom used. h, c, x,f, and iv, are wanting altogether. The Russian language may be adapted to almost every species of versification. It is flexible, harmonious, full of rhythmus, rich in * Is of modern introduction, and is used principally in the beginning of words of foreign origin, as Edinburgh, Etymology. t The first of these is used before a consonant, the latter be- fore a vowel. % C is the sharp s or ss, as in lass : 3 the soft single s, as usu- ally pronounced in the middle of words ; e. g. muse INTRODUCTION XXV11 compounds, and possesses all the elements of poetry. From the following examples in dif- ferent measures, some idea may be formed of its natural music. TROCHAICS OF SEVEN AND EIGHT SYLLABLES. Stonet sisoi golu bochik Stonet on i den' i noch' ; Ego milen'koi druzhechik, Otletoe'l daleko proch.'* Derzhavin. IAMBICS OF SIX AND SEVEN SYLLABLES. Sakoni 6 suzhdaiut, Predmet moei liubvi : No kto, o sfcrdtze ! mozhet, Protiv'it'sje tebae'.f Karamsin. * Deeply sighs the little wood-dove, Deeply sighs he day and night ; His beloved heart-companion Far away has wing'd her flight. t But law's imposing fetters, My burning love restrain : Yet who, heart ! could ever O'er thee a victory gain ? XXV111 INTRODUCTION. DACTYLICS OF SEVEN AND EIGHT SYLLABLES-. Svae'ri raboti ne snaiut, Ptitzl zhivut bes truda; Liudi ne svae'ri ne ptitzl, Liiidi rabotoi zhiv'ut.* Karamsin. ALEXANDRINES. Bozhestvenni'i metall ! krasjeshchii istukanov, Zhivotvorjeshchaje dusha pusti'kh karmanov.f Von Visin. HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS. Tam, tam ssetovat' ranas ves'vaek moi ! gorestnii mrachnii Kazhdii medlennii den', kazhduiusuzhasom noch'.f * Beasts of the field never labour, Birds of the forest repose ; Man, neither one nor the other, Man is appointed to toil. t'lhou godlike metal gold ! that mov'st the very statues. And to an empty purse can give a living spirit. % There, there do I wear out life's pilgrimage, sorrowing and dreary, While the day in its misery rolls, and tlie terrible night. INTRODUCTION. Xxix Rimes are either masculine or feminine : the former have the accent on the last syllable, the latter on the penultimate : Masculine. Feminine.' r iskal loboiu stal krasoiu tzar poru tvar goru* The productions of the Russian press are no index to the national cultivation. The great majority of that extensive empire are yet little removed from the uncivilized and brutish state in which they were left by the Ruriks and the Vladimirs of other times. Un- fortunately, society has few gradations ; and there is no influence so unfriendly to improve- ment, no state of things so utterly hopeless, as that produced by a domestic slavery built *The best Russian Grammar I have met with is Tappe's Thcortlisch-praklischz Russische Sprachlchre. I have availed my- self of it for many of the preceding observations. XXX INTRODUCTION. upon the habits of ages. In Russia, the next step from absolute dependence is nobility ; at least, the intermediate classes are too incon- siderable to be here considered. The strength, the intelligence, the public and the private virtue of our middling ranks, which serve so admirably to cement the social edifice, are there wanting. All sympathy is partial and exclusive. In this country, the spirit of in- formation, wherever elicited, rapidly spreads over and glows in every link of the electrical chain of society. It mounts aspiringly, if it have its origin among the less privileged or- ders ; and it descends through all the beautiful gradations of rank, when it has its birth in the higher circles : it is diffusive — it is all-enlight- ening. But in Russia, however bright the flame, it is pent up, it cannot spread. The noble associates with the noble ; the slave herds with the slave ; but man has no com- munion with man. No spot is there, whether sacred to science or to virtue, in which the INTRODUCTION. XXXI ; ' rich and poor" may " meet together," equal- ized though but for a moment, as if the com- mon Father were indeed " the Maker of all ;" and assuredly the Russian nation can make no striking progress in civilization till the terrible barriers which so completely separate the dif- ferent ranks are destroyed. The million, un- instructed and unambitious, will, it is to be feared, be long held in the fetters of vassalage. The personal interests of the ruling few are too clearly, too fatally opposed to the meli- oration of the subject many, to allow any thing to be hoped for from these lords of the soil. There are, it must be confessed, active minds, generous energies, at work ; but where is their influence seen ? To lead such an immense nation through the different stages of improvement, to rational and permanent lib- erty, were indeed an object worthy of the most aspiring, the most glorious ambition. It were an achievement not to be hailed by the blast of trumpet, nor the roar of artillery ; (the XXXU INTRODUCTION. world, recovering from its drunken infatuation, is well nigh weary of the unholy triumphs which have been thus celebrated ;) it were an achievement, which would hand down the name of him who should effect it to future ages, linked with the gratitude, the virtue, the happiness of successive and long enduring generations. For the interesting notices at the close of this volume I am indebted to my illustrious friend Von Adelung. Thus to thank him is the least return I can make. J. B. ;m* I RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY. DERZHAVIN. GOD* O Thou eternal One ! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight j Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! * This is the poem of which Golovnin says in his narrative, (hat it has been translated into Japanese, by order of the emperor, and is hung up, embroidered with gold, in the Tem- ple of Jeddo. I learn from the periodicals, that an honour 4 DERZHAVIN. Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! Whom none can comprehend and none explore ; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone : Embracing all, — supporting, — ruling o'er, — Being whom we call God — and know no more ! In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep — may count The sands or the sun's rays — but, God ! for Thee There is no weight nor measure: — none can mount Up to Thy mysteries ; Reason's brightest spark, Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark : And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity. something similar has been done in China to the same poem. It has been translated into the Chinese and Tartar languages, written on a piece of rich silk, and suspended in the imperial palace at Pekin. There is in the first verse a variation from the original, which does not accord with my views of the perfections of the Deity. DERZHAVIN. *> Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence ;— Lord ! on Thee Eternity had its foundation : — all Sprung forth from Thee : — of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin : — all life, all beauty Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create ; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious ! Great ! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround : Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath ! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death ! As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee ; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.* *The force of this simile can hardly be imagined by those who have never witnessed the sun shining, with unclouded 1* DERZHAVIN. A million torches lighted by Thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss: They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command AH gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light — A glorious company of golden streams — Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost : — What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? And what am /then ? Heaven's unnumber'd host. Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed splendour, in a cold of twenty or thirty degrees of Reaumur. A thousand and ten thousand sparkling stars of ice, brighter than the brightest diamond, play on the surface of the frozen snow; and the slightest breeze sets myriads of icy atoms in motion, whose glancing light, and beautiful rainbow-hues, dazzle and weary the eye. DERZHAVIN. 7 In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness, is a cypher brought Against infinity ! What am I then ? Nought ! Nought ! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reach'd my bosom too j Yes ! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew. Nought ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager towards Thy presence ; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, O God ! and surely Thou must be ! Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee ; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart : Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand ! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, 8 DERZHAVIN. Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! The chain of being is complete in me ; In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit — Deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust ! A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! Whence came I here, and how f so marvellously Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy ; For from itself alone it could not be ! Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source — to Thee — its Author there. ©ERZHAVIN. O thoughts ineffable ! O visions blest ! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and good ! Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore j And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 19 BERZHAVIN. ON THE DEATH OF MESHCHERSKY. Ah ! that funereal toll ! loud tongue of time ! What woes are centred -in that frightful sound ! It calls ! it calls me- wfth a voice sublime, To the lone chambers of the burial ground. My life's first footsteps are midst yawning graves ; A pale, teeth-clattering spectre passes nigh, A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves, Mow?' down man's days like grass, and hurries by. Nought his untired rapacity can cloy : Monarchs and slaves are all the earth-worm's food ; And the wild-raging elements destroy Even the recording tomb. Vicissitude Devours the pride of glory ; as the sea Insatiate drinks the waters, even so days And years are lost in deep eternity ; Cities and empires vandal death decays. DEHZHAVIN. 11 We tremble on the borders of the abyss, And giddy totter headlong from on high ; For death with life our common portion is, And man is only born that he may die. Death knows no sympathy; he tramples on All tenderness — extinguishes the stars — Tears from the firmament the glowing sun, And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. But mortal man forgets mortality ! His dreams crowd ages into life's short day ;— While, like a midnight robber stealing by, Death plunders time by hour and hour away. When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh ; Where most secure we seem, he loves to come : Less swift than he, the bolts of thunder fly, Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. Thou son of luxury ! child of dance and song, O whither, whither is thy spirit fled ? On life's dull sea thy bark delayed not long, But sought the silent haven of the dead. VI DERZHAVIN. Here is thy dust ! Thy spirit is not here \ Where is it ? There. Where there f 'tis all unknown : We weep and sigh — alas ! we know not where ! For man is doubt and darkness' eldest son ! Where love, and joy, and health, and worldly good. And all life's pleasures in their splendor glow ; He dries the nerves up, he congeals the blood, And shakes the very soul with mighty woe. The songs of joy are funeral cries become — And luxury's board is covered with a pall — The chamber of the banquet is a tomb : Death, the pale autocrat, he rules o'er all. He rules o'er all — and him must kings obey, Whose will no counsel knows and no control ; The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, Who stand like pillars in a tyrant's hall. Beauty and beauty's charms are nought to him, Man's intellect is crush'd by his decrees ; Man's brightest light his dreadful frown can dim — He whets his scythe for trophies such a"s these. DERZHAVIN. 13 Death makes all nature tremble ! What are we ? To-morrow dust, though almost gods to-day ! A mixture strange of pride and poverty : Now basking in hope's fair and gladdening ray, To-morrow — what is man to-morrow? Nought! How swiftly rolls the never-tarrying stream, Hour after hour, to gloomy chaos brought ; While ages dawn and vanish like a dream ! Even like an infant's sweet imagining, My early, lovely spring-tide hurried on : Beauty just smiled and sported, then took wing ; Joy laughed a moment, and then joy was gone. Now less susceptible of bliss, less blest, Wiser and worldlier, panting for a name ; With a vain thirst of honour, pain'd, opprest. I labour wearied up the hill of fame. But manhood too and manhood's care will pass, And glory's struggles be ere long forgot ; For fame, like wealth, has busy wings, alas ! \ml joy's and sorrow's sound will move us not. 14 1>ERZHAVIN. Begone, ye vain pursuits, ye dreams of bliss, Changing and false, no longer flatter me ! I stand upon the sepulchre's abyss, In the dark portal of eternity. To-day, my friend ! may bring our final doom •+ If not to-day, to-morrow surely will : Why look we sadly on Meshchersky's tomb ? Here he was happy — he is happy still 1 Life was not given for ages to endure, Though virtue even on death may find a rest : But know — a spirit order' d well and pure, May make life's sorrows and life's changes blest. DERZHAVIN. 15 THE WATERFALL. Lo ! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright, Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall Fours forth its gems of pearl and silver light : They sink, they rise, and sparkling, cover all With infinite refulgence ; while its song, Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along-^- Rolls through the woods — they send its accents back, Whose last vibration in the desert dies : Its radiance glances o'er the watery track, Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies Beneath the forest-shade ; then sweetly flows A milky stream, all silent, as it goes. Its foam is scattered on the margent bound, Skirting the darksome wood. But list ! the hum Of industry, the rattling hammer's sound, Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come 16 DERZHAVIN. On the fast-travelling breeze ! O no ! no voice Is heard around, but thy majestic noise ! When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder, In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb ; When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder, As sands they sink into thy mighty womb : The ice that would imprison thy proud tide, Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide. The fierce wolf prowls around thee — there he standi Listening — not fearful, for he nothing fears : His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands, Like bristles o'er him his coarse fur he rears ; Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats, And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats. The wild stag hears thy falling waters' sound, And tremblingly flies forward — o'er her back She bends her stately horns — the noiseless ground Her hurried feet impress not — and her track DERZHAVIN. 1 1 Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze, And the leaves falling from the rustling trees. The wild horse thee approaches in his turn : He changes not his proudly rapid stride, His mane stands up erect — his nostrils burn — He snorts — he pricks his ears — and starts aside ; Then madly rushing forward to thy steep, He dashes down into thy torrents deep. Beneath the cedar, in abstraction sunk, Close to thine awful pile of majesty, On yonder old and mouldering moss-bound trunk, That hangs upon the cliff's rude edge, I see An old man, on whose forehead winter's snow Is scattered, and his hand supports his brow. The lance, the sword, the ample shield beneath Lie at his feet obscured by spreading rust ; His casque is circled by an ivy wreath — Those arms were once his country's pride and trust: IS DERZHAVIxV. And yet upon his golden breast-plate plays The gentle brightness of the sunset rays. He sits, and muses on the rapid stream, While deep thoughts struggling from his bosom rise " Emblem of man ! here brightly pictured seem The world's gay scenery and its pageantries ; Which as delusive as thy shining wave, Glow for the proud, the coward and the slave. So is our little stream of life poured out, In the wild turbulence of passion : so, Midst glory's glance and victory's thunder-shout, The joys of life in hurried exile go — Till hope's fair smile, and beauty's ray of light Are shrouded in the griefs and storms of night. Day after day prepares the funeral shroud ; The world is gray with age : — the striking hour Is but an echo of death's summons loud — The jarring of the dark grave's prison door : DERZHAVIN. 19 Into its deep abyss — devouring all — Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall. Aye ! they must fall ! see that unconquer'd one Midst Rome's high senate — hark! his deeds they tell: He stretch'd his hand to seize the proffered crown ; His mantle veiled his countenance — he fell. Where are the schemes, the hopes that dazzled him? Those eyes, aspiring to a throne, are dim. Aye ! they must fall ! another hero see, From triumph's golden chariot fortune flings : The proudest son of magnanimity, Who scorned the purple robe : — ev'n he whom kings Looked to with reverence : he in prison dies, Heaven's light extinguished in his vacant eyes. Aye ! they must fall ! as I have fallen — I, Whom late with flowery wreaths the cities crown'd; And dazzling phantoms played so smilingly Midst laurels, olive-branches waving round ; 20 DERZHAVIN. 'Tis past — 'tis past — for in the battle now My hand no lightnings at the foe can throw. My strength abandons me ; the tempest's roar Hath in its fury borne my lance away : My spirit rises proudly as before, But triumph hides her false and treacherous ray." He spake — he slumbered, wearied and opprest ; And Morpheus o'er him waved his wings of rest. A wintry darkness visited the world, Borne on the raven-pinions of the night ; Nothing is heard but thy loud torrents ; hurled Down in their fierceness from the o'erhanging height They dash in fury 'gainst the echoing rock. Even with an Alpine avalanche's shock. The desert is as gloomy as the grave ; The mountains seem all wrapt in solemn sleep; The clouds are rolling by, like wave on wave, In silent majesty across heaven's deep. DERZHAVIN. 21 But see, the pale-faced melancholy moon Looks tremblingly from her exalted throne : She look'd out tremblingly, and soon withdrew Her terror-stricken horns : the old man lay Sleeping in sweet tranquillity : she knew Her mighty foe — she knew, and slunk away : She dared not look on that old man, for he Was the world's glory and her enemy.* He slumber'd ; glorious were his hero-dreams ! And wondrous visions floated round his eye : * It is scarcely necessary to explain, that Romanzov is thf old hero whom the poet means to depicture, and that thes». stanzas refer to his victories over the Turks. I have no sympathies with the poet in the admiration he expresses of the warlike character. I can see but few dis- tinctions between the conqueror and the executioner; and they are in favour of the latter, whose victims are at all events doomed to death bythe forms and with the solemnitiesof justice. I should as soon think of celebrating the carousals of a horde of cannibals, as of giving the attractions and decorations of «ong to those dreadful scenes of sin and misery, which men call victories : and I blush for my country and for my race when 22 DERZHAVIN. While near, the sleeping bolt of thunder seems To wait from him its awful destiny. Ten thousand warriors armed around him stand, And silently attend his high command. His finger points ! the loud artillery's fire Follows ! a sudden trembling shakes the ground j Army on army, in their proud attire, Cover the vales, the hills, the plains around ; They rise like mountains o'er the distant sea, When from the sunny ray the vapours flee. His footsteps now imprint the dewy grass : There early morning opens on his view, Amidst the dust, th' innumerable mass Of enemies : he looks their squadrons through, And reads the secrets of their vast array, Even as an eagle soaring o'er his prey. I reflect, that in the very proportion of the wickedness im- plied, and the wretchedness produced, are they made the sub- jects of pride and congratulation, and honoured with the designations " great" and " glorious!" Man was surely born to nobler and better things than these. DERZHAVIN. 23 Then, like an unseen Magus in his cell, He calls his spirits round him : these he leads Over the mountains; those commands to dwell Amidst the woods ; and these he scattering spreads Along the vales : to weakness gives the frown Of strength, and hurls his dreadful thunder down. The eagle's daring, and the crescent's pride, There, by the ebony and the amber sea,* He humbles ; and, by the evening's golden side.f Subdues the golden fleece and Kolkhidi. A thousand trophies of victorious war Redeem the losses of the snowy tzar :| Like the vermillion ray on morning's wings, His triumphs on admiring nations beam : Emperors and empires, heroes, kingdoms, kings, "Unite to praise, unite to honour him, * " The ebony and amber sea" — the Euxine and the Caspian. t " Evening's side" — the west. t The white czar (beeloi Tzar,) a common appellation of the Russian emperor. 24 DERZHAVIN. And raise above his glory-circled head A laurelled, time-enduring pyramid. His name, his deeds through hurrying years appear Bright as the sun-bearns on the mountain's brow, Dazzling the world with splendor : waving there Garlands of radiance-giving laurels glow ; Their rays shall animate the future fight, And fill the brave one's breast with hope and light. Envy, disarmed before his piercing glance, Bends down her head to earth, and hurries by ; Crawls trembling to her vile retreat askance — She cannot bear the lightnings of his eye. Go, envy, to thy dark and deep abyss ! What deeds, what fame can be compared to his ? He slumbers midst these images : but now He hears the howling dogs — the trembling trees ; The vulture's cries, the screech-owl's voice of woe. And the fierce raging of the turbulent breeze ; DERZHAT1N. 25 The wild beasts' roaring from their distant lair, And shadowy spirits till the troubled air. The oaks are shivered by the maddened storm ; Annies of ravens flap their funeral wings ; The stony mountain shakes its giant form, And bursts with terrible re-echoings. From rock to rock 'tis vibrated around, And thunders thunder back the thundering sound.* A winged woman, clad in sable weeds, Her long hair scattered by the winds, was there, Like one with dreadful, death-like news that speeds : She waved a scythe-like weapon in the air, And held a golden trump; she called "Arise," And her loud voice was echoed through the skies. * Original : Grokhochet ekho po goram Kak grom gremjeshchij po groraam 3 26 DERZHAVIN. See on her casque the frowning eagle rest, Holding the dreadful thunderbolt : he bears His country's shield upon his noble breast. The old man waked ; he shed a shower of tears ; He sighed, and bent his venerable head, Uttering — " Some hero surely must be dead. Happy if always combating for right When combating with glory : happy he Whose sword knew mercy in the bloodiest fight. His shield an Mgis for an enemy. Centuries to come shall celebrate his fame, And ' Friend of Man' shall be his noblest name. Dear let his memory be, and proud his grave ! And this his epitaph : — ' He lived, he fought For truth and wisdom : foremost of the brave, Him glory's idle glances dazzled not; 'Tvvas his ambition, generous and great, A life to life's great end to consecrate !' O glory ! glory ! mighty one on earth ! How justly imaged in this waterfall ! DERZHAVIN. 27 So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth, Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all ; Sublimely breaking from thy glorious height, Majestic, thundering, beautiful and bright. How many a wondering eye is turned to thee, In admiration lost ; — short-sighted men ! Thy furious wave gives no fertility ; Thy waters, hurrying fiercely through the plain, Bring nought but devastation and distress, And leave the flowery vale a wilderness. O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill, Watering with steps serene the field, the grove — Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still, As shepherd's pipe, or song of youthful love. It has no thundering torrent, but it flows Unwearied, scattering blessings at it goes. To the wild mountain let the wanderer come, And resting on the turf, look round and see, With saddened eye, the green and grassy tomb, And hear its monitory language : he — 28 DERZHAVIN. He sleeps below, not famed in war alone ; The great, the good, the generous minded one. O be immortal, warlike hero ! Thou Hast done thy duty — all thy duty here." So said the old man, crowned with locks of snow : He looked to heaven, then stood in silence there, — In silence, but the echoes caught the sound, And filled the listening scenery around. Who glances there along the mountain's side, Just like the moon upon the darkest wave ? What shadow flits across the midnight tide, Gleaming as if from heaven ? The pitchy grave Is brighter than that gloomy brow, 'tis clad In deep and desolate abstraction sad ! What wondrous spirit from the north descends? The winds are swift, but cannot follow him : Nation on nation struck with terror bends ; His voice is thunder : stnrry glories gleam DERZHAVIX. 29 Around him, and his hurrying footsteps bright Scatter a thousand thousand rays of light. His body, like a dark and gloomy shade, On midnight's melancholy bosom lies : A coarse and heavy garment round him laid, And thickening films are gathering round his eyes : His icy fingers press his bosom chill, His lips are opened wide, but all is still. His bed, the earth : his roof, the azure sky : His palace, yonder desert stretching wide. Art thou the son of fame and luxury ? The prince of Tavrid ? From thy height of pride Fallen so low and lonely ? And is this But one dark step from glory and from bliss ? Wert thou the favourite of the northern throne, Minerva's* favourite ? Wert thou he that trod * Catherine. — This was one of her favourite titles ; and in the character and dress of Minerva she is often represented en her medals. 3* 30 DERZHAVIK. The Muse's temple — ihou Apollo's son, The pride of Mars — thou, on whose mighty nod Both peace and war stood waiting ; nobly great, Not clad in purple, but a potentate ? What ! art thou he that cradled and uprear'd The Russian's prowess — Catherine's energy ? Sustain'd by her, thy thunderbolt was heard Rolling through distant lands its majesty ; And to the everlasting heights was hurl'd, Whence Rome sent forth her mandates to the world. Art thou not he who bade the robber yield, Scatter'd the pirate herds the desert o'er, And bade the city flourish, and the field Where all was waste and barrenness before ; Sprinkled with ships the Euxine — while the shore Even of the tropics heard thy cannons' roar ? Wert thou the great, the glorious one, who knew With martial fire the hero Russ to fill ; DERZHAVIN. 31 Taught him the very elements to subdue, In burning Otchakov and Ismahil : With eagle-daring, eagle-strength inspired ; While valour looked, and wondered, and admired ? 'Tis he, the hardiest of mortals ; he, Sublimely soaring, takes his flight alone, Creator of his own proud destiny : No footstep near him — that bright path his own. Thy fame, Potemkin, shall in glory glow, While everlasting ages lingering flow. Beauty and art and knowledge raised to him Triumphal arches : smiling fortune wove Myrtle and laurel wreaths, and victory's beam Lighted them up with brightness : joy and love Played round thy flow'ry footsteps : pleasure, pride Walk'd in majestic glory at thy side. 'Tis he, 'tis he to whom the poet brought His offerings lighted with the Muse's fire : 32 DERZHAVIN. Thundering with Pindar's majesty of thought, And breathing all the sweetness of the lyre, I sang the victories of Ismahil ; But thou wert gone — the poet's lyre was still. Alas ! 'twas then a vain and voiceless shell : Or, if it spoke, its tone was but despair ; From my weak hands it fell, in dust it fell, My eye was dimmed by the fast-falling tear : I stood the stars of paradise beneath,* But all was darkness, desolation, death ! 'Tis still, where all was eloquent with thee : The thunders of thy fame have rolled away, Thy orphan'd armies wail their misery, The ear is wearied with their plaintive lay. 'Twas brightness all, with joy and beauty bright, But now 'tis night, 'tis desolation's night; * The roofs of many of the apartments of the Tavrid palace were decorated with golden stars. DERZHAVIN. 33 Thy laurel crown is faded in its pride ; Thy sparkling Bulava* is broken now, Thy half-sheathed sword hangs useless at thy side, And Catherine mourns her woe, her more than woe : He fell ; his mighty unexpected fall Shook, like an earthquake, the terrestrial ball. Peace brought her fresh green laurel branches, saw His fall, and from her hands the garland fell. She heard the voice of wretchedness and woe ; The Muses joined to sing a funeral knell Around the tomb of Pericles : — the strain OfMaro wept Maecenas' fate again. f His was a kingdom full of light : a throne Of more than regal glory was his seat : A rosy-silver steed convey'd him on — A splendour-glancing phaeton at his feet : * Bulava — the Hetman's staff. t This is somewhat of an anachronism, as the poet died before his patron. 34 DERZHAVIN. Proudest of all the proud equestrians he — He fell : — in death's dull, dark obscurity. O ! what is human gloiy, human pride ? What are man's triumphs when they brightest seem ? What art thou, mighty one ! though deified ? Methusalem's long pilgrimage, a dream ; Our age is but a shade, our life a tale, A vacant fancy, or a passing gale, Or nothing ! 'Tis a heavy hollow ball, Suspended on a slender subtle hair, And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions, all Struggling within in furious tumult there. Strange mystery ! man's gentlest breath can shake it, And the light zephyrs are enough to break it. But a few hours, or moments, and beneath Empires are buried in a night of gloom : The very elements are leagued with death, A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb. DERZHAVIN. 35 Where is the mighty one ? He is not found. His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground ! The dust of heroes ? No ! their glories rise Triumphant upwards, spreading living light And pure imperishable memories Through ages of forgetfulness and night : Flowers shining on time's wintry mountain side ; Potemkin could not die — he has not died ! His theatre was Evksin's distant shore, His temple, thankful hearts : the glorious hand That crowns him, Catherine's : glancing, dazzling o'er Was fame's all-eloquent triumphant band. Life was a list of triumphs, and his head Beneath a tomb-stone, reared by love, was laid. When the red morn breaks trembling o'er the dew, And through the woods the wild winds whistle shrill ; When the dark Danube wears a bloody hue — Then is the name oft heard of Ismahil, 36 DERZHAVIN. And oft a gloomy voice is echoed then, Through twilight, " Say what means the Saracen^' He trembles, and his eye is dimmed with fear, The arms he dreads are sparkling in the sun ; And forty thousand Moslems dying there, Are the proud trophies of the northern one. Their shades (like frighted spectres) glide before, And the Russ stands in streams of human gore j He trembles, and looks upwards, but the skies Are covered with portentous omens dire ; Dark visions from the sea of Tavrid rise, And the land shakes with heaven's excited ire : Again Otchakov's bloody torrent flows Frightfully on, and freezes as it goes. As through the fluid brightness of the sea, Beneath the welkin's sunny canopy, The tenants of the waves glide joyfully ; So o'er the Leman's face our squadrons fly, 1XERZHAVIN. 37 Their swell'd sails bursting with the winds, they tell How proud the ambition of the Russ can swell. Ours is unutterable triumph now, Theirs, fears and apprehensions : on the tomb, That shields their heroes, thorns and mosses grow; Laurels and roses o'er our heroes bloom. Our glory-girded mausoleums stand O'er conquerors of the ocean and the land. When the sun sinks at evening's calmest close, Love sorrowfully sits : the breeze of spring Across the melancholy harp-strings blows, And spreads around its deep notes sorrowing : Sighs from his bosom burst, and tears are shed Upon the sleeping hero's sculptured bed. And ere the morning gilds the distant hill, And o'er the golden tomb the sunbeams play; While yet the wild deer sleeps; and night-winds shrill Wind round the mountains there ; the old man gray .4 38 DEKZHAVIN. Hangs o'er the monument in secret gloom, And reads, " Potemkin's consecrated tomb !" Manes of Alcibiades ! so low, That now the earth-worm joys in their decay : There lies the casque that bound Achilles' brow ; The shepherd finds it — bears that casque away On his base forehead ! Does it matter ? Nay ! The victor sleeps — his glory ? wrapt in clay ! But gratitude still lives and loves to cherish The patriot's virtues, while the soul of song In sacred tones, that never, never perish, Fame's everlasting thunder bears along j The lyre has an eternal voice — of all That's holy, holiest is the good man's pall. List then, ye worldly waterfalls ! Vain men, Whose brains are dizzy with ambition, bright Your swords — your garments flow'ry like a plain In the spring time — if truth be your delight DERZHAVIN. 39 And virtue your devotion, let your sword Be bared alone at wisdom's sacred word. Roar, roar, thou waterfall ! lift up thy voice Even to the clouded regions of the skies : Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice, Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes, Joy-giving torrent ! sweetest memory Receives a freshness and a strength from thee. Roll on ! no clouds shall on thy waters lie Darkling : no gloomy thunder-tempest break Over thy face : let the black night-dews fly Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak In distance and in nearness : be it thine To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine, Thou parent of the waterfall ! proud river ! Thou northern thunderer, Suna ! hurrying on In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun, 40 DE11ZHAVJN. Now dashing from the mountain to the plain ? And scattering purple fire and sapphire raia. 'Tis momentary vehemence : thy course Is calm and soft and silent, clear and deep Thy stately waters roll : in the proud force. Of unpretending majesty, they sweep The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea. Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed, Washes the golden banks that o'er thee smile ; Until the clear Onega drinks its tide, And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil : O what a sweet and soul-composing scene, Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene? DERZHAVIN. 41 ON THE DEATH OF COUNT ORLOV. What do I hear? An eagle from heaven's cloudy sea, Midst the high towering hosts that swam Before Minerva's steps, when she To earth from proud Olympus came : That eagle, sailing in its state, Heralding Russia's naval might, Pierced hy the fatal spear of fate, Falls rustling from the glorious height ! Alas ! alas ! whither his flight through heaven's blue vault ? Where is his path on ocean's deep ? Where is his fearful thunderbolt ? Where do his forked lightnings sleep ? Where is the bosom nought could fright, The piercing, penetrating mind ? 'Tis all, 'tis all enshrined in night ; He left us but his fame behind ! 4* DERZHAVIN. SONG. Golden bee ! for ever sighing, Round and round my Delia flying, Ever in attendance near her : Dost thou really love her, fear her, Dost thou love her, Golden bee ? Erring insect ! he supposes, That her lips are morning roses : Breathing sweets from Delia's tresses r He would probe their fair recesses. Purest sugar Is her breast! Golden bee! for ever sighing, Ever round my Delia flying ; Is it thou so softly speaking ? Thine the gentle accents breaking, " Drink I dare not,. Lest I die !' r BATIUSHKOV* TO MY PENATES. Fatherland Penates ! come, Kind protectors of my home ! Not in gold or jewels rich — Can ye love your simple shrine ? Smile, then, sweetly from your niche On this lowly hut of mine, Thus removed from wordly care, I, a wearied wanderer, In this silent corner here, Offer no ambitious prayer. Here, if ye consent to dwell, Happiness shall court my cell. Kind and courteous ever prove, Beaming on me light and love ^ 46 BATIUSHKOT. Not with streams of fragrant wine, Not with incense smoking high, Does the poet seek your shrine — His is mild devotion's sigh, Grateful tears, the still soft fire Of feeling heart : and sweetest strains, Inspired by the Aonian quire. Lares ! in my dwelling rest, Smile on the poet where he reigns. And sure the poet shall be blest. Come, survey my dwelling over ; 1 '11 describe it if I 'm able : In the window stands a table, Three-legged, tott'ring, with a cover, Gay some centuries ago, Ragged, bare and faded now. In a corner, lost to fame, To honour lost, the blunted sword (That relic of my fathers' name) Harmless hangs, by rust devoured. Here are pillaged authors laid — There, a hard and creaking bed : BATIUSHKOV. 47 Broken, crumbling, argile-ware, Furniture strewed here and there. And these in higher love I hold Than sofas rich with silk and gold, Or china vases gay and fair. Kind Penates ! thus I pray — O may wealth and vanity Never hither find their way, Never here admitted he ! Let the vile, the slavish soul, Let the sons of pomp and pride. Fortune's spoilt ones, turn aside ; Not on them nor theirs I call ! Tottering beggar ! hither come, Thou art bidden to my home ; Throw thy useless crutch away ; Come — be welcome and be gay ! Warmth and rest thy limbs require, Stretch thee by my cheerful fire : Reverend teacher ! old and hoary, Thou whom years and toils have taught, Who with many a storm hast fought, <8 BAT1USHKGV. Storms of time and storms of glory ! Take thy merry balalaika,* Sing thy struggles o'er again; In the battle's bloody plain, Where thou swung'st the rude nagaika ;f Midst the cannon's thunder roar, Midst the sabres clashing o'er ; Trumpets sounding, banners flying O'er the dead and o'er the dying, While thy never-wearied blade Foes on foes in darkness laid. And thou, Lisette ! at evening steal. Through the shadow-cover'd vale, To this soft and sweet retreat ; Steal, my nymph, on silent feet. Let a brother's hat disguise Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes ; * The balalaika is a two-sided musical instrument, of which the Russian peasants are extremely fond. fThe nagaika is a hard thong, used by the Cossacks to flog tjieir horses; but sometimes employed as a weapon of warlikt attack. BATIUSHKOV. 49 O'er thee be my mantle thrown, Bind my warlike sabre on : When the treacherous day is o'er, Knock, fair maiden, at my door ; Enter then, thou soldier sweet ! Throw thy mantle at my feet ; Let thy curls, so brightly glowing, On thy ivory shoulders flowing, Be unbound : thy lily breast Heave, no more with robes opprest ! " Thou enchantress ! is it so ? Sweetest, softest shepherdess ! Art thou really come to bless With thy smiles my cottage now ?" O her snowy hands are pressing Warmly, wildly pressing mine ! Mine her rosy lips are blessing, Sweet as incense from the shrine, Sweet as zephyr's breath divine Gently murmuring through the bough ; Even so she whispers now : " O my heart's friend, I am thine ; 5 5Q BATIUSHKOV. Mine, beloved one ! art thou." What a privileged being he, Who in life's obscurity, Underneath a roof of thatch, Till the morning dawns above, Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch, In the arms of holy love ! But the stars are now retreating From the brightening eye of day, And the little birds are greeting, Round their nests, the dewy ray. Hark ! the very heaven is ringing With the matin song of peace : Hark ! a thousand warblers singing Waft their music on the breeze : All to life, to love are waking, From their wings their slumbers shaking ; But my Lila still is sleeping In her fair and flowery nest ; And the zephyr, round her creeping, Fondly fans her breathing breast ; O'er her cheeks of roses straying, BATIUSHKOV. 51 With her golden ringlets playing : From her lips I steal a kiss ; Drink her breath : but roses fairest, Richest nectar, rapture dearest, Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss, Never were as sweet as this. Sleep, thou loved one ! sweetly sleep ! Angels here their vigils keep ! Blest, in innocence arrayed, I from fortune's favours flee ; Shrouded in the forest-shade, More than blest by love and thee. Calm and peaceful time rolls by : O ! has gold a ray so bright As thy seraph-smile of light Throws o'er happy poverty ? Thou good genius ! in thy view Wealth is vile and worthless too : Riches never brought thee down From thy splendour-girded throne ; But beneath the shadowy tree Thou hast deigned to smile on me. 52 BATIUSHKOV. Fancy, daughter of the skies, Thoughts, on wings of light that rise. Waft my spirit gay and free, When the storm of passion slumbers, Far above humanity, To the Aonian land of numbers, Where the choirs of music stray ; Rapture, like a feather'd arrow, Bursting life's dark prison narrow. Bears me to the heavens away. Sovereigns of Parnassus ! stay Till the morning's rosy ray Throws its brightness o'er your hill. Stay with nature's poet still. O reveal the shadowy band, Minstrels of my fatherland ! Let them pass the Stygian shore, From the ethereal courts descending : Yonder airy spirits o'er, O ! I hear their voices blending ; List ! the heavenly echoes come Wafted to my privileged home ; 53 BATIU5HK0V. Music hovers round my head, From the living and the dead. Our Parnassian giant,* proud, Tow'ring o'er the rest I see ; And, like storm or thunder loud. Hear his voice of majesty. Sons and deeds of glory singing A majestic swan of light ; Now the harp of angels stringing, Now he sounds the trump of fight; Midst the muses', graces' throng, Sailing through the heaven along ; Horace' strength, and Pindar's fire, Blended in his mighty lyre. Now he thunders, swift and strong, Even like Suna o'er the waste :f Now, like Philomela's song, Soft and spring-like, sweet and chaste, " Derzhavin. t In the original steppe ; a long, mighty, barren desert such as the Siberian river (Suna) flows over. 5* 54 BATIUSHKGV. Gently breathing o'er the wild, Heavenly fancy's best loved child 1 Gladdening and enchanting one I* History's gayest, fairest son ! He who oft with Agathon Visits evening's fane of bliss : Or in Plato's master tone, Near the illustrious Parthenon, Calls the rays of wisdom down With a voice sublime as his. Now amidst the darkness walking, Where old Russia had her birth ; With the Vladimirij talking, As they ruled o'er half the earth ; Or Sclavonian heroes hoary, Cradled in a night of glory ! Sweetest of the sylphs above,f And the graces' darling, see ! O how musically he * Karamsin. + BogdanoviclL BATIUSHKOV. 55 Tunes his Citra's melody, To Dushenka* and to love. Near, Meletzy smiling stands, Mutual thoughts their souls employ ; Heart in heart, and hands in hands, Lo ! they sing a song of joy ; Next engaged with love in play, Poets and philosophers, Close to Phaedrus and Pilpay,f Lo ! Dmitriev appears * Dushenka, (the diminutive of Dusha — the Soul,) or The Little Psyche, is the title of the most celebrated poem of Bog- danovich. t The wise man, who according to the oriental story (cur- rent also in Russia) received Truth when she had been inhos- pitably driven from place to place. In Russia I have heard the fable thus : — A Vakir in his ramble trod where the ground re-echoed his footsteps — " It must be hollow here," thought he ; "I will dig, and I shall find a treasure." He dug, and found a spring, from whence a beautiful and naked female sprung forth — " Who art thou, loveliest daughter of heaven ?" said he. " My name," she replied, " is Truth ; lend me thy mantle." This he refused to do ; and she hastened to the city, where the poets found fault with her figure, the eourtiers with 56 BATIUSHKOV. Sporting like a happy child, Midst the forest's tenants wild, her manners, the merchants with her simplicity. She wan- dered about, and none would give her an asylum, till she fell in with a poor man, the court news-writer, who thought she tnight be a veiy useful auxiliary: but she blotted out whatever he composed, so that no news was published for many days ; and the sultan, sending for his newsman to inquire the cause of his silence, was told the history of his guest, who was in con- sequence summoned to court. Here, however, she was so troublesome, turning eveiy thing upside down, that it was de-- termined to convey her away ; and the sultan ordered her to be buried alive in his garden. His commands were obeyed by his courtiers ; but Truth, who always springs up with re- newed vigor in the open air, rose from her grave ; and, after wandering about for some time, found the door of the public library open, went in, and amused herself by burning all the books that were there, with the exception of two or three. Again straying forth in search of an abode, she met a venera- ble man, to whom she told her story — and this was Pilpay. He received her to his house with a cordial welcome, and re- quested her company to his museum of stuffed beasts, birds, and insects. " Thou hast no discreetness," said he ; " in the world thou art constantly getting into scrapes : now take the counsel of an old man, make this cabinet thy abode ; here thou hast a large choice of society, and here dwell." She BATIUSHKOV. 67 Garlanded with smiling wreaths ; Truth unveiled beside him breathes. See two brothers toying there, Nature's children — Phoebus' priests : KrllofF leading Kheninitzer ! Teaching poets ! ye whose song Charms the idle moments long, When the wearied spirit rests. Heavenly choir ! the graces twine O'er you garlands all divine ; And with you the joys I drink, Sparkling round Pierian brink, While I sing in raptured glory, " Ed io anche son pittore." Friendly Lares ! O conceal From man's envious, jealous eye, found the advice so reasonable that she adopted it ; since when her voice is only heard in the language of fable, and her chosen interpreters are the animal creation. Pilpay's Fables were translated into French by Galland, 2 vols. 8vo. 1714. There are also several English transla- tions. 58 BATIUSHKOV. Those sweet transports which I feel, Those blest rays of heart-born joy ! Fortune ! hence thy treasures bear, And thy sparkling vanities : I can look with careless eyes On thy flight — my little bark, Safely led through tempests dark, Finds a peaceful haven here — Ye who basked in Fortune's ray From my thoughts have passed away. But ye gayer, wiser ones, Glory's, pleasure's cheerful sons ! Ye who with the graces walk, Ye who with the muses talk ; Passing life's short hours away In intellectual children's play ; Careless, joyous sages ! — you, Philosophers and idlers too ! Ye who hate the chains of slavery ! Ye who love the songs of bravery ! In your happiest moments come, Come, and crowd the muses' home. BATIUSHKOV. 50 Let the laugh and let the bowl Banish sorrow from the soul : Come, Zhukovsky, hither hieing, Time is like an arrow flying — Pleasure, like an arrow fleet : Here let friendship's smile of gladness Brighten every cloud of sadness — Wreathe with cypress, roses sweet. Love is life ; — thy garlands bring, Bobrov, while they 're blossoming : Bind them blooming round our brow — Bacchus, friends ! is with us now. Favourite of the muses, fill : Pledge and drink, and pledge us still! Aristippus' grandson — thou ! O thou lov'st the Aonian lasses, And the harmonious clang of glasses; But when evening's silence fills All the vales and all the hills, Thou remote from worldly folly, Tak'st thy walk with melancholy ; 60 BATIUSHKOV. And with that unearthly dame (Contemplation is her name) Who conveys the illumined sense In sublime abstraction hence — Up to those high and bright abodes Where men are angels — angels, gods. Give me now thy friendly hand ; Leave for me thy spirit-land ! Come, companion of my joy, W T e will all time's power destroy On our chazha solotoi* See behind, with locks so gray, How he sweeps life's gems away j His remorseless scythe is mowing All the flowers around us blowing. Be it ours to drive before us Bliss — though fate is frowning o'er us ! Time may hurry, if he will ; We will hurry swifter still ; * The golden cup. BATIUSHKOV. tJl Drink the cup of ecstasy, Pluck the flow'rets as we fly, Spite of time and destiny : Many a star and many a flower Shine and bloom in life's short hour, And their rays and their perfume For ms shall shine — for us shall bloom. Soon shall we end our pilgrimage ; And at the close of life's short stage Sink smiling on our dusty bed : The careless wind shall o'er us sweep ; Where sleep our sires, their sons shall sleep With evening's darkness round our head. There let no hired mourners weep ;* No costly incense fan the sod ; No bell pretend to mourn ; no hymn Be heard midst midnight's shadows dim- Can they delight a clay-cold clod ? No ! if love's tribute ye will pay, Assemble in the moonlight ray, "* Plakalschitzii — women hired to mourn round a corpse 62 BATIUSHKOV. And throw fresh flow'rets o'er my clay : Let my Penates sleep with me — Here bring the cup I loved — the flute I played — and twine its form, though mute. With branches from the ivy-tree ! No grave-stone need the wanderer tell, That he who lived, and loved so well, Is sleeping in serenity. I*©ffi®HWTOT, LOMONOSOV. EVENING REFLECTIONS, ON THE MAJESTY OF GOD, ON SEEING THE GREAT NORTHERN LIGHTS. Now day conceals her face, and darkness fills The field, the forest with the shades of night ; The gloomy clouds are gathering round the hills, Veiling the last ray of the lingering light. The abyss of heaven appears — the stars are kindling, round ; Who, who can count those stars, who that abyss cat* sound ? 6* OG L0M0N0S0T. Just as a sand 'whelmed in the infinite sea, A ray the frozen iceberg sends to heaven ; A feather in the fierce flame's majesty : A mote, by midnight's maddened whirlwind driven. Am I, midst this parade : an atom, less than nought. Lost and o'erpower'd by the gigantic thought. And we are told by wisdom's knowing ones, That there are multitudes of worlds like this ; That yon unnumber'd lamps are glowing suns, And each a link amidst creation is ; — There dwells the Godhead too — there shines his wisdom's essence — His everlasting strength — his all-supporting presence. Where are thy secret laws, O nature, where ? Thy north-lights dazzle in the wintry zone : How dost thou light from ice thy torches there ? There has thy sun some sacred, secret throne ? See in yon frozen seas what glories have their birth; Thence night leads forth the day to illuminate the earth. LOMONOSOV. 67 Come then, philosopher ! whose privileged eye Reads nature's hidden pages and decrees : — Come now, and tell us whence, and where, and why, Earth's icy regions glow with lights like these, That fill our souls with awe : — profound inquirer, say, For thou dost count the stars and trace the planets' way ! What fills with dazzling beams the illumined air? What wakes the flames that light the firmament ? The lightnings flash : — there is no thunder there — And earth and heaven with fiery sheets are blent: The winter night now gleams with brighter, lovelier ray Than ever yet adorn'd the golden summer's day. Is there some vast, some hidden magazine, Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies ? Some phosphorus fabric, which the mountains screen, Whose clouds of light above those mountains rise? 68 LOMONOSOV. Where the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea, And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry? Thou knowest not ! 'tis doubt, 'tis darkness all ! Even here on earth our thoughts benighted stray, And all is mystery through this worldly ball — Who then can reach or read yon milky way ? Creation's heights and depths are all unknown — untrod — Who then shall say how vast, how great creation's God? lomonosov. 69 THE LORD AND THE JUDGE. The God of gods stood up — stood up to try The assembled gods of earth. "How long," he said, " How long will ye protect impiety, And let the vile one raise his daring head ? 'Tis yours my laws to justify — redress All wrong, however high the wronger be ; Nor leave the widow and the fatherless To the cold world's uncertain sympathy. 'Tis yours to guard the steps of innocence, To shield the naked head of misery ; Be 'gainst the strong, the helpless one's defence, And the poor prisoner from his chains to free." They hear not — see not — know not — for their eye* Are covered with thick mists — they will not see : 70 LOMONOSOT. The sick earth groans with man's iniquities., And heaven is tired with man's perversity. Gods of the earth ! ye Kings ! who answer not To man for your misdeeds, and vainly think There's none to judge you : — know, like ours, your lot Is pain and death : — ye stand on judgment's brink. And ye like fading autumn-leaves will fall ; Your throne but dust — your empire but a grave — Your martial pomp a black funereal pall — Your palace trampled by your meanest slave. God of the righteous ! O our God ! arise, O hear the prayer thy lowly servants bring : Judge, punish, scatter, Lord ! thy enemies, And be alone earth's universal king. MWBKW* ZHUKOVSKY. THE MARINER, Rudderless my shattered bark, Driven by wild fatality, Hurries through the tempest dark, O'er the immeasurable sea. Yet one star the clouds shines through ; Little star ! shine on, I pray ; O that star is vanished too — My last anchor breaks away. Gloomy mists the horizon bound, Furiously the waters roar ; Frightful gulfs are yawning round, Fearful crags along the shore. 74 zHUKorsK*. Then I cried in wild despair, " Earth and heaven abandon me." Fool ! the heavenly pilot there May thy silent helmsman be. Through the dark, the madden'd waves, O'er the dangerous craggy bed ; Midst the night-envelop'd graves, Lo ! I was in safety led By the unseen guardian hand : Darkness gone, and calm the air, And I stood on Eden's land ; Three sweet angels hailed me there ! Everlasting fount of love ! Noiv will I confide in Thee : Kneeling midst the joys above, Thy resplendent face I see : Who can paint Thee, fair and bright, Thy soul-gladdening beauty tell ? Midst heaven's music and heaven's light, Purity ineffable ! ZHUKOVSKY. O unutterable joy ! In Thy light to breathe, to be ; Strength and heart and soul employ, O my God, in loving Thee. Though my path were dark and drear. Holiest visions round me rise ; Stars of hope are smiling there, Smiling down from Paradise. 75 7G ZHUXOVSKY. ^OLUS' HARP * In yon mansion of ages Lives Morven's famed chieftain, the valiant Ordalj Where the wild billow rages, And scatters its foam on the time-hallowed wallj *It will immediately occur to the readers of Ossian, that the personages, sentiments, and scenery of this poem are de- rived from him. The question of the genuineness of the great mass of what is called the Ossianic poetry, is, I imagine, finally set at rest. But the conviction of their high antiquity (notwithstanding what Adelung has written) is very general in the north of Europe, and I have often heard that convic- tion expressed by those who have gone very profoundly into the history of Runic and Gothic poetry. Whatever be their date, the inquiry as to their literary merit is very dis- tinct from it. With the exception of Gray's Elegy, (of which I have seen a collection of more than one hundred and fifty versions,) there is nothing, probably, in our language, which has been more frequently translated. I shall be excused, I hope, for introducing, at the close of this volume, a rendering of Helmers' Dood van Ossian from the Dutch— a tongue treated ZHUfcOVSKY. ?« Like a mountain in glory. It towers o'er the wave, And its oaks, old and hoary, Come down to the shores which the white waters lave.* The stag-hound, the beagle, With cries oft re-echoed, the wide forest fill ; To the throne of the eagle They chase the wild boar and the goat up the hill; And the stag from the heather : — The valleys resound j Horns, voices together, Are mingled in rapid vibrations around. with very undeserved depreciation, though it possesses poetical beauties in the works of Vondel, Hooft, Tollens, Helmers, and others, of which specimens maybe found in the collections of Siegenbeek and the Bataavsche Maatschappij, which I should rejoice to see transferred to our own. * High walls rise on the banks of the Duvranna, and see their mossy towers in the stream ; a rock ascends behind them with its bending pines. Thou may'st behold it far distant.— Oithona. 7* 79 ZKUKOTSKT. All, all are invited — And joy is let loose at the board of Ordal - y The guests are united Where wide-spreading antlers adorn the rude hall;* Of ages departed The glories are told : And memory, full-hearted, Sends hack all its thoughts to the great ones- of old.f Their helmets in order, Their bucklers, and harness, and hauberks are hung On the roof's antique border \\ And there, while the deeds and the victories are * Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields, and youth of heavy looks came to Runnars echoing hall — they came to woo the maid. — Cath-Loda. fNow I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds! their souls are kindled at the battles of old ; at the actions of other times ; their eyes are flames of fire. — Fingal. X When a warrior was so far advanced in years as to be unfit for the field, it was the custom to hang up his arms in the great hall, where the tribe feasted on joyful or remarkable occasions. ZHUK0VSKY. 79 Of the heroes of story, Ordal proudly stands j And a flash of their glory Seems to break from the cup which he waves in his hands.* He looks to the armour; 'Tis all that destruction hath left of their name ; — His bosom beats warmer, His spirit is roused with the touch of their fame : Though the helmets before them Are broken and dim, He remembers who wore them — ■ And, O, they are splendid and sacred to him.f *Is the remembrance of battles pleasant to the soul ? Do we not remember with joy the place where our fathers feasted? — Temora. t Not unmarked by Sul-malla is the shield of Morven's- king. It hangs high in my father's hall in memory of the past. — Sul-Malla. 80 ZHUKOVSKY. Milvana the bright one* The hall of her father resplendently fills ; As, with garments of light on,f A morning of summer walks up the fresh hills ; As from nature's recesses A free golden stream, So her fine flowing tresses O'er her soft-heaving bosom in luxury gleam .J Far fairer than morning,^ She scatters around the soft lustre of soul ; Dark glances adorning The flashes of fire from her eye-balls that roll ; *Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. Her dark hair flowed around it like the streaming clouds. — Cath-Loda. Her soul was like a stream of light. — Colna-Dona. i She was a light on the mountain. — Temora. X Her breast rose slowly to sight, like the ocean's heaving wave. — Colna-Dona. § Her face was like the light of the morning. — Dar-Thula. ZHUKOVSKT. 81 Like the song of the fountain Her mild accents fall ; Like the rose of the mountain Her breath ; — but her spirit is sweeter than alL* Her beauty's gay splendor Has beamed in its brightness through far-distant lands : What heroes attend her — The castle of Morven is filled with their bands ! Its chieftain delighted Weaves visions of pride ; But his daughter has plighted Her hand to a bard to no glory allied. Young, lovely, and lonely As the rose in its freshness, he tuned his soft lays' In the deep valley only : To him all unheard was the music of praise. * She appeared lovely as the mountain flower, when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-eovered sides. — Prel. Discourse to Ossian. * 32 ZHUKOVSKT. Milvana descended From luxury's throne : Affection had blended Her heart with a heart as unstained as her own. In the black arch of heaven, Like the shield of a warrior, the pale moon is hung; Through the gloomy clouds driven, Its light-streams o'er ocean's wide surface are flung; The dark shadows spreading, From castle and grove, Their giant forms shedding Sublimely the waves and the waters above, Where the mountain-cocks rally, Where the waterfall bursts from the storm-covered rock * O thou that travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield of the mighty. — Prel. Discourse to Ossian. His shield is terrible, like the bloody moon ascending through a storm. — Temora. ZHUKOVSKY. $3 Ere it rush to the valley ;* The oak was her witness, her shelter the oak : Milvana retreating To solitude there, Her minstrel awaiting : — She breathed not — her breath was suspended by fear. With harp sweetly sounding, He comes to the oak-tree — blest moments of love { With peace all surrounding, And the moon gently glimmering and smiling above. What a temple for loving For bosoms so bland ! And the waves, softly moving, Convey their low music along the smooth strand. * Lead me, O Malvina ! to the sound of my woods — to the roar of my mountain-streams. — War of Caros. As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter descending from his storm-covered hill ; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream. — Cathlin of Clutha. It is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, whin il comes between its echoing rocks to the blasted field of the «un. — Temora. Gray streams leap down from the rocks. — Ibid. 84 ZHUKOVSKY. They looked on the ocean ; With their soft pensive sadness it seemed to attune; The waves' gentle motion Was silvered and marked by the rays of the moon. " How brightly, how fleetly The waters roll on ! So swiftly, so sweetly Come pleasures and love — they smile and are gone." " Why sigh then, my fair one ! Though the waters may ebb and the years may decay ? My beloved ! my dear one ! Can time on its wings bear affection away ? To a bard unbefriended O say, canst thou bow, Thou, from monarchs descended, And heroes, whom Morven is honouring now ?" " What is honour or glory ? What garlands so sacred as love's holy wreath ? What hero-bright story Has an utterance so sweet as affection's young breath ? ZHUKOVSKY. S5 No fears shall confound us, No sorrow, no gloom ; Joy is sparkling around us, And let years follow years till life sinks in the tomb." " Come, joys that smile o'er us, Ye sweets of a moment, come hither and stay ! For who can assure us They will not be scattered by morning's bright ray? For morn will not linger, Nor rapture remain ; I, again a poor singer, And thou, a bright queen in thy splendor again."* * The melancholy character of the whole of this passage may serve to recall Ossian's sublimely beautiful and tender song of sorrow. I shall be excused for introducing it. — " Des- olate is the dwelling of Moina: silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have hut fallen before us ; for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days ? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the 8 86 ZHUKOVSKY. " Let the glance of day brighten, Let its radiance be shed o'er the mountain and sea;* Thy smiles shall enlighten All nature, while living, to love and to me ; With hope and with heaven, With love and with thee, What joys art not given ? For life has no transports that beam not on me." blast of the desert come ! we shall be renowned in our day. The mark of my arm shall be in battle ; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round the shell ; let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven ! shalt fail — if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light ! if thy brightness is for a season, like Fingal, — our fame shall survive thy beams." — Cartlion. In the same touching spirit is the noble address to the sun. " — thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! whence are thy beams, sun ! — -'thy everlasting light ? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty, the stars hide themselves in the sky : the moon cold and pale sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone : who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mo ntains fall ; tiic mountains themselves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows ZHUKOVSKY. S7 " The sun is returning ; The orient is pale with the coming of clay ; The zephyrs of morning Awakened, like waves on the mountain-tops play;" " 'Tis the northern light glancing Across the dark sky, Not the morning advancing : Sweet winds ! bring no morn from the mountains on high."* again ; the moon herself is lost in heaven ; but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. V> hen the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and light- ning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, care- less of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth ! age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills : the blast of the north is on the plain — the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. — Ibid. -The mountains are covered with dav. — Temora. SS ZHUKOVSKY. " But list ! to the bustling Of voices ; they wake in the castle ere now." " O no ! 'tis the rustling Of half- si umbering birds as they dream on the bough." " The orient is lighted, Milvana ! O why Do my spirits, benighted In doubt and foreboding, desert me and die ?" The youth has suspended, In silence, his harp on the time-hallowed oak : — " Unseen, unattended, Let thy soft music speak, my sweet harp ! as if. spoke In the luxury of sadness,* The fervour of truth, The bright tones of gladness, The songs, and the smiles, and the sunshine of youth. * Pleasant is the joy of grief. — Carrie-thura. ZHUKOVSKY. 89 " The bloom of the singer Shall fade with the grief-blast, like flowers of the grove ;* But here there shall linger, The spirit, the youth, and the fervour of love. An angel here speaking, Shall often be seen, All those raptures awaking, Which in days of our early devotion have been. " My spirit shall hover, Like a light airy shade, o'er the track of thy way ; Milvana ! thy lover Shall speak through his heart at the close of the day. The grief that alarmed us, Uncertainty's fear, The tears that disarmed us, All, all of life's sorrows shall fly from us here. * Thy death came like a blast from the desert and laid my green head low : the spring returned with its showers, no leaf of mine arose. — Croma. 8* 90 ZHUKOVSKT. " W hen his life-term is ended f Affection immortal shall live in his soulf Our spirits there blended, Undivided, shall love while eternities roll. Thou oak-tree ! wide-spreading, O'ershadow the fair ; — Ye zephyrs ! here shedding Your fragrance, the freshness of sympathy bear." The big tears were falling : — He ceased : — his eye fixed, but within, like a knell, A low voice was calling — * " Farewell ! my Milvana ! forever farewell." His hand, damp and burning, Had wildly seized hers : Then with hurried steps turning, Like a phantom of fancy, the youth disappears. The moon shone unclouded — The maiden was there, but the minstrel is fled : ■ Within my bosom is a voice — others hear it not. — Temort. ZHUKOVSKY. 91 Like a silent tree shrouded In darkness, she stood in the wilderness dread,* The chieftain his daughter Had traced to the grove ; And now o'er the water To exile, a bark is conveying her love. At morn and at even Milvana retires to the oak-tree to mourn ; And the stream that is driven Adown the steep hill, seems her sighs to return. " 'Tis all dark and dreary, Milvana ! to thee, Thy spirit is weary — And thy minstrel shall never return to the tree." The evening-wind waking, Called up their soft sounds from the leaves as \t roved : •Night came: the moon from the east looked on the mournful field: but they stood still like a silent grove that lifts it's head on Gormal. — Carlhan. 92 ZHUKOVSKY. The green branches shaking, It kisses the harp — but the heart is unmoved. Spring came, sweetly bringing Her eloquent train,* And nature was ringing With rapture, enkindling gay smiles through her reign. On the emerald meadows, And hills in the distance, are gold streams of light ; And soft silent shadows Seemed to spread over eve the calm stillness of night. The stars are in motion Across the blue deep ; Like a mirror, the ocean : And the winds, hushed to silence, among the leaves sleep.f *So hears a tree in the vale the voice of spring around, and pours its green leaves to the sun. — Temora. t Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-liaired son of the sky? The west has opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves come to behold thy beauty: they ZHUKOVSKY. 93 Milvana sat weeping Beneath the old tree, but her thoughts were not there. All nature lay sleeping, When accents unearthly were heard in the air : The green leaves are shaken — It was not the wind — * The silent strings waken : Some ghost hurries by and leaves music behind.f lift their trembling heads ; they see thee lovely in thy sleep ; but they shrink away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun ! and let thy return be in joy. — Carric-ihura. * Doth the wind touch thee, harp ! or is it some passing ghost ? — Berralhon. t The harps of the bards were believed to emit melancholy and unwonted sounds phrophctic or commemorative of the death of any renowned and worthy person. This was attrib- uted to the light touch of gliosis. The music was called the warning voice of the dead. The harps of the bards untouched, sound mournful over the hill. — Tcmora. The lone blast touched their trembling strings : the sound is sad and low. — Ibid. 94 ZHUKOVSKT. The harp's secret spirit Breathes forth a long, sorrowful, heart-rending sound :* She trembled to hear it, 'Twas softer than zephyrs when whispering around, 'Twas the voice of her lover ; — Her soul sunk in night :f " 'Tis over — 'tis over — The earth is a waste — he has taken his flight." In desolate madness Milvana had fall'n in the dust :J but the tone Still breathed its sweet sadness ; More sad as the soul that inspired it was gone. * The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain shrieked. The blast came rustling through the hall and gently touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the tomb. — Dar-Thula. t Darkness covers my soul. — Prel. Discourse. Darkness gathered on Utha's soul. — Carric-thura. t Her dark brown hair is spread on earth. — Ibid. ZHUKOVSKY. 95 Its music she heard not ; She woke faint and chill ; The star-lights appeared not — 'Twas morning — 'twas morning, damp, dewy, and still. From morrow to morrow She visited still the old oak of the wood ; There that music of sorrow Still broke on her ear from the realms of the good. While thus disunited, On earth could she stay, By her minstrel invited, To the heaven where her thoughts and her hopes led the way ? Thou harp of my bosom, Be still — let thy voice drown the summons of death ; The delicate blossom, Unopened, shall fade in the valley beneath : 96 ZHUKOTSKY. The wanderer roaming To-morrow will come — " My floweret, where blooming ?"* " Thy floweret ! — 'tis withered — it sleeps in the tomb." He is dead — but whenever A black, starless mantle is hung o'er the skies ; When from fountain, and river, And hill, the cold mists like the dark billows rise, Two shades are seen blending, United as when In their youth-tide attending ;f — * Why did I not pass away in secret like the flower of the rock, that lifts its head unseen and shows its withered leaves to the blast ? — O'dhona. They fall away like the flower on which the sun bath look- ed in his strength after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with the drops of night. — Croma. t It was a current opinion, that the spirits of women hov- ered over the earth in all their living beauty, and were often seen gliding along like a sun-beam on a hill. She was like a spirit of heaven half folded in the skirt of a cloud. — Ti-morrr. ZHUKOVSKT. 97 And the oak waves its boughs, and the chords speak again. The sky grew dark: the forms of the dead were blended with the clouds. — Ibid. Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark thick mist on Lena, where it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise without song to the dwelling of winds. — Ibid. Two spirits of heaven standing each on his gloomy cloud. — Ibid. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving at times to the gale. " Why dost thou awake me, gale !" it seems to say, •'■ I am covered with the drops of heaven' the time of my fading is near — the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-mor- row shall the traveller come. He that saw me in beauty shall come — his eyes will search in the fields, but they will not find me." — Berralhon. 9 ZHUKOVSKY. SONG. Say, ye gentle breezes, say, Round me why so gently breathing '? What impels thee, streamlet ! wreathim Through the rocks thy silver way ? What awakens new-born joy, Joy and hope thus sweetly mingled ; Say, has pilgrim spring enkindled Rapture with her laughing eye ? Lo ! heaven's temple, bright, serene, Where the busy clouds are blending, Sinking now, and now ascending, Far behind the forest green ! Will the High, the Holy One Veil youth's soul-enrapturing vision ? Shall I hear in dreams elysian Childhood's early? lovely tone ? ZHUKOVSKY. 99 See the restless swallow flies Through the clouds — his own dominion ; Could I reach on hope's strong pinion, Where that land of beauty lies ! O how sweet — how blest to be Where heaven's shelter might protect me ! Who can lead me — who direct me To that bright futurity ? 100 ZHUKOVSKT. ROMANCE. Gather'd yon dark forest o'er Lo ! the gloomy clouds are spread : Bending toward the desert shore, See the melancholy maid ; Her eyes and her bosom are wet with tears - 7 All heaven is black, and the storm appears ; And the wild winds lift the billows high, And her breast is heaving with many a sigh, " O my very soul is faded, Joy and sympathy are fled ; Nature is in darkness shaded, Love and friendship both are dead. The hope that brightened my days is gone S O whither, my angel ! art thou flown ? Too blest was I, too wild with bliss, For T lived and loved, and loved for this ' ZHUKOVSKY. 101 " Swell then, burning tears ! the deep, Flow, with yonder billows flow : And ye lonely forests ! weep, Meet companions of my woe. My days of pleasure, though short and few, Are fled for ever — O earth ! Adieu ! He sleeps — will death restore him ? Never ! For the joy that's lost is lost forever. " Nature's sad and wintry day Is of momentary gloom : Soon in Spring's reviving ray All her loveliness shall bloom. But joy has never a second spring : And time no ray of light can bring But from tearful eyes: — there's no relief From dark despair's corroding grief!" 9* The hope that bngin. O whither, my angel! art thou nuwn ( Too blest was I, too wild with bliss, For T lived and loved, and loved for this! km KARAMSIN. THE SONG OF BORNHOLM.* Curses on the world's decree ! That decree which bid us part : Who has e'er resisted thee, Passion-throbbing, maddened heart ? * Karamsin states that on one of the barren islands of the Baltic he saw a pale and wretched-looking young man, who sang to the melancholy tones of a lyre the song of which the above is a translation. He afterwards discovered that the miserable being had long indulged an incestuous passion ; and had been banished with the bane of a father's curse upon him to that desolate abode. He saw the shier afterwards in a convent, and the father also. The old man was an image of the wildest misery. He discovered that Karamsin had '.earned the cause of his affliction, and urgently implored him not to reveal it to the world. 106 KARAMSIN. Is aught holier than the light Kindled in our souls by heaven ? Is aught stronger than the might Given to love — to beauty given ? Yes ! I love — shall ever love ! Curse the passion if ye will, Call down vengeance from above, Still I love — adore her still ! Holy Nature ! I, thy child, To thy sheltering bosom flee : Thou hast fanned this flame so wild, I am innocent with thee. If to yield to passion's sway, Be a dark and damning sin ; Why hast thou, O tempter ! say, Lighted passion's fires within ? No ! thy storm-winds, as they rolled, Gently rocked our secret bed ; KARAMSIN. 107 And thy thunder, though it growled, Never burst upon our head. Bornhohn ! Bornholm ! to thy home Memory, wildered memory flies : Thither would my spirit roam From its tears — its agonies ! Vain the wish ! an outlaw I, Followed by a father's curse ; Doomed in banishment to die, Or despairing live — as worse ! Lila ! has thy spirit shrunk From thy woes, and found a grave? Has thy burdened misery sunk In oblivion's silent wave ? Let thy shadow then appear Smile upon me from the tomb ; Give me, love ! a welcome there, Come, though veii'd in darkness, — come ! 108 KARAMSIN. THE CHURCH-YARD. FIRST VOICE. How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear ! With the howls of the storm-wind — the creaks of the bier, And the white bones all clattering together ! SECOND VOICE. How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep : Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flow'rets perfume it with ether. FIRST VOICE. There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead. And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed. And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss. KARAMSIN. 109 SECOND VOICE. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : No tempests are there : — but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. FIRST VOICE. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave : 'Tis the vulture's abode : — 'tis the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. SECOND VOICE. There the coney at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod ; — while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. FIRST VOICE. There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of ( The trees are all barren and bare ! 10 110 KARAMSIN. SECOND VOICE. O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamine fair. FIRST VOICE. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is launched on the wreck-covered river ! SECOND VOICE. The traveller outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes for ever. KARAMSIN. Ill AUTUMN. The dry leaves are falling ; The cold breeze above Has stript of its glories The sorrowing grove. The hills are all weeping, The field is a waste, The songs of the forest Are silent and past : And the songsters are vanished ; In armies they fly, To a clime more benignant, A friendlier sky. The thick mists are veiling The valley in white : 1 12 KARAMSIN. With the smoke of the village They blend in their flight. And lo ! on the mountain The wanderer stands, And sees the pale autumn Pervading the lands. Thou sorrowful wanderer, Sigh not—nor weep ! For Nature, though shrouded, Will wake from her sleep. The spring, proudly smiling, Shall all things revive ; And gay bridal-garments Of splendor shall give. But man's chilling winter Is darksome and dim ; For no second spring-tide E'er dawns upon hira. KARAMSIN. 113 The gloom of his evening, Time dissipates never : His sun when departed Is vanisht for ever. 10* 114 KARAMSIN. LILEA. What a lovely flower I see : Bloom in snowy beauty there — O how fragrant and how fair ! Can that lily bloom for me ? Thee to pluck, be mine the bliss, Place upon my breast and kiss ! Why then is that bliss denied ? Why does heaven our fates divide ? Sorrow now my bosom fills ; Tears run down my cheeks like rills j Far away that flower must bloom, And in vain I sigh, " O come !" Softly zephyr glides between, Waving boughs of emerald green. Purest flow'rets bend their head, Shake their little cups of dew : Fate unpitying and untrue. KARAMSIN. 115 Fate so desolate and dread Says, " She blossoms not for thee ; — In vain thou sheddest the bitterest tear. Another hand shall gather her : — And thou — go mourn thy misery." O flower so lovely ! Lilea fair ! With thee I fain my fate would share. But heaven hath said, " It cannot be !" 116 KARAMSIN. EPIGRAMS. TO NICANDER. You talk of your taste and your talents to me, And ask my opinion — so don't be offended : Your taste is as bad as a taste can well be ; And as for your talents — you think them most splendid. He managed to live a long life through, If breathing be living ; — but where he was bound, And why he was born, nor ask'd nor knew. — O why was he here to cumber the ground ? ITBttET, DMITRIEV. DURING A THUNDER STORM. It thunders ! Sons of dust, in reverence bow ! Ancient of days ! Thou speakest from above : Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now ; That hand which scatters peace and joy and love. Almighty ! trembling like a timid child, I hear thy awful voice — alarmed — afraid — I see the flashes of thy lightning wild, And in the very grave would hide my head. Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies — Or feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust : There is he lost midst heaven's high mysteries, And here in error and in darkness lost: 120 DMITRIEV. Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea, Like a poor sailor — by the tempest tost In a frail bark — the sport of destiny, He sleeps — and dashes on the rocky coast. Thou breathest ; — and th' obedient storm is still : Thou speakest ; — silent the submissive wave : Man's shattered ship the rushing waters fill, And the husht billows roll across his grave. Sourceless and endless God ! compared with Thee, Life is a shadowy momentary dream : And time, when viewed through Thy eternity, Less than the mote of morning's golden beam. DMITRIEV. 121 THE TZAR AND THE TWO SHEPHERDS. The tzar has wandered from the city-gate, To seek seclusion from the cares of state ; And thus he mused : " What troubles equal mine ! That I accomplish when I purpose this : — Tn vain I bid the sun of concord shine, And toil unwearied for my subjects' bliss : Its brightness lasts a moment, and the tzar For the state's safety is compelled to war ; God knows I love my subjects — fain would bless them, But oft mistake — and injure and oppress them. 1 seek for truth, but courtiers all deceive me ; They fill their purses and deluded leave me ! My people sigh and groan : — I share their pain, And struggle to relieve them, but in vain." Thus mused the lord of many nations ; then Looked up, and saw wide scattered o'er the glen 11 122 DMITRIEV. The poor lean flocks : — the sheep had lost their lambs, And the stray'd lambkins bleated for their dams: — They fled from place to place, alarmed, afraid ; The lazy dogs were sleeping in the shade ! How busy is the shepherd : — now he hies To the grove's verge : — now to the valley flies : — Seeks to assemble here the sheep that stray, And there a favourite lamb he hurries on : But lo ! the wolf ! — he springs upon his prey : The shepherd hastens, but the thief is gone : He cries — he beats his breast — he tears his hair, Invoking death in agonized despair. " Behold my picture !" said his majesty, " Here is another sovereign, just like me : — I'm glad to know vexations travel far, And plague a shepherd as they plague a tzar." And on he moved in more contented mood — Whither he knew not; — but beyond the wood He saw the loveliest flock that ever grazed, DMITRIEV. 123 And linger'd, mute with wonder, as he gazed : — How strong, how sleek, how satisfied, how fair ! Wool soft as silk, and piled in luxury there, Its golden burden seemed too great to bear. The lambs, as if they ran for wagers, playing, Or near their dams, or far — securely straying — The shepherd, 'neath the linden-tree, Tuned his pipe most joyfully ! * Ah !" said the tzar, " ye little think How close ye stand on danger's brink, The uncharitable wolf is near : — And he for music has no ear." And so it was — as if the wolf had heard. Advancing in full gallop he appear'd. But the dogs the wily traitor knew, Sprung up and at the robber flew : — His blood has for his daring paid : And the lambkin that through fear had strayed, Is gather'd into the fold anew ; 124 DMITR1EV. And the shepherd's pipe was echoed still, Down the vale and up the hill. The monarch lost all patience now : — " What ! dost thou sit there like a rock, While wolves are ravaging thy flock ? A very pretty shepherd thou !" " Tzar ! here no evil can betide my sheep, My dogs are faithful — and they do not sleep.'''- DMITJRIEV. 125 THE BROKEN FIDDLE. A wretched* fiddle fell, in fragments, — these, Though once discordant, by the hand divine Of music fashioned, breathed sweet harmonies : ***** So is man tuned by sufferings' discipline. * Original, diushenna — one of a dozen — a frequent expression for what is very common and useless. 11* 126 DMITRIEV. THE DOVE AND THE STRANGER. STRANGER. Why mourning there so sad, thou gentle dove ? DOVE. I mourn, unceasing mourn, my vanished love. STRANGER. What ! has thy love then fled, or faithless proved ? DOVE. Ah no ! the sportsman murdered him I loved ! STRANGER. Unhappy one ! beware ! that sportsman's nigh ! DOVE. O let him come — or else of grief I die. DMITRIET. 127 OVER THE GRAVE OF BOGDANOVICH, AUTHOR OF THE BEAUTIFUL POEM PSYCHE. Here Love unseen, when sinks the evening sun, Wets the cold urn with tears, and mournful thinks, While his sad spirit, sorrow-broken, sinks, — None now can sing my angel Psyche — none ! 128 DMITRIET, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Fair sister ! " Infant brother dear ! On the wing, on the wing ?" Wandering the wide world over In search of a lover — there is no love?' : Lost as if the plague had been there ! "I've been seeking a friend! — there's none below, The world must soon to ruin go ! Written in sand are the oaths now spoken, 'Tis all lip-service, and promise broken ; My name is a cloak for thirst of gain .'" And mine for passion impure, profane ! ;UL©V< KRILOV. THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE.* An ass a nightingale espied, And shouted out, " Holla ! holla ! good friend ! Thou art a first rate singer, they pretend : — Now let me hear thee, that I may decide ; I really wish to know — the world is partial ever — If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever." The nightingale began her heavenly lays ; Through all the regions of sweet music ranging, Varying her song a thousand different ways ; Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing : * Krilov gave me this fable in MS. It has since been printed in his Basiii. 132 KRILOV. Full of wild rapture now — then sinking oft To almost silence — melancholy, soft, As distant shepherd's pipe at evening's close : — Strewing the wood with lovelier music ; — there All nature seems to listen and repose : No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air: — All other voices of the grove are still, And the charm'd flocks lay down beside the rill. The shepherd like a statue stands — afraid His breathing may disturb the melody, His finger pointing to the harmonious tree, Seems to say, " Listen !" to his favourite maid. The singer ended : — and our critic bow'd His reverend head to earth, and said aloud : — "Now that 's so so ; — thou really hast some merit; Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it ; Thy voice wants sharpness : — but if Chanticleer Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear; KT.ILOV. And thou in spite of all thy faults may'st be A very decent singer." The poor bird In silent modesty the critic heard, And winged her peaceful flight into the air, O'er many and many* a field and forest fair. .Many such critics you and I have seen : — Heaven be our screen ! * Literally — " three times nine " 12 tot? ^1 tvt "Tii* TF ^ 77* ^TP 1 1U> KHEMNITZER. THE HOUSE-BUILDER. Whate'er thou purposest to do, With an unwearied zeal pursue ; To-day is thine — improve to-day, Nor trust to-morrow's distant ray. A certain man a house would build, The place is with materials filled ; And every thing is ready there — Is it a difficult affair ? Yes ! till you fix the corner-stone ; It wont erect itself alone. Day rolls on day, and year on year, And nothing yet is done — There 's always something to delay The business to another day. 12* KHEMNITZER. And thus in silent waiting stood The piles of stone and piles of wood j Till Death, who in his vast affairs Ne'er puts things off — as men in theirs — And thus, if I the truth must tell, Does his work finally and well — Winked at our hero as he past, " Your house is finished, Sir, at last ; A narrower house — a house of clay — Your palace for another day ! KHEMNITZER. 139 THE RICH AND THE POOR MAN. So goes the world ; — if wealthy, you may call This friend, that brother ; — friends and brothers all; Though you are worthless — witless — never mind it; You may have been a stable boy — what then ? 'Tis wealth, good Sir, makes honourable men. You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it. But if you are poor, heaven help you ! though your sire Had royal blood within him, and though you Possess the intellect of angels too, 'Tis all in vain ; — the world will ne'er inquire On such a score : — Why should it take the pains ? 'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. 140 KHEMNITZER. I once saw a poor devil, keen and clever. Witty and wise : — he paid a man a visit, And no one noticed him, and no one ever Gave him a welcome. " Strange," cried I, "whence is it? He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat ; Now here, now there, in vain he tried ; Some formally and freezingly replied, And some Said by their silence — " Better stay at home." A rich man burst the door, As Croesus rich I'm sure, He could not pride himself upon his wit Nor wisdom — for he had not got a bit : He had what's better ; — he had wealth. What a confusion ! — all stand up erect — These crowd around to ask him of his health; These bow in honest duty and respect; And these arrange a sofa or a chair, And these conduct him there. KHEMNITZER. 141 •• Allow me, Sir, the honour ;" — then a bow Down to the earth — Is't possible to show Meet gratitude for such kind condescension? The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said, ft. u This is indeed beyond my comprehension :" Then looking round One friendly face he found, And said — " Pray tell me why is wealth preferr'd To wisdom ?" — "That's a silly question, friend !" Replied the other — " have you never heard, A man may lend his store Of gold or silver ore, But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend ?" 142 JLHEMNITZER. THE LION S COUNCIL OF STATE. A lion .held a court for state affairs : Why? That is not your business, Sir, 'twas theirs! He called the elephants for counsellors— still The council-board was incomplete ; And the king deemed it fit With asses all the vacancies to fill. Heaven help the state — for lo! the bench of asses The bench of elephants by far surpasses. He was a fool — the aforesaid king — you'll say; Better have kept those places vacant surely, Than fill them up so poorly. O no ! that's not the royal way ; Things have been done for ages thus — and we Have a deep reverence for antiquity : Nought worse, Sir, than to be, or to appear Wiser and better than our fathers were. KHEMNITZER. 143 The list must be complete, even though you make it Complete with asses ; for the lion saw Such had for ages been the law — He was no radical to break it ! " Besides," he said, " my elephants' good sense Will soon my asses' ignorance diminish, For wisdom has a mighty influence." They made a pretty finish ! The asses' folly soon obtained the sway ; The elephants became as dull as they ! 141 KHEMX1TZER. THE WAGONS. I saw a long, long train Of many a loaded, lumbering wain ; And one there was of most gigantic size, It look'd an elephant 'midst a swarm of flies ; It roll'd so proudly that a passenger Curiously asked — " Now what may that contain ?" " Nothing but bladders, Sir !" Such masses (misnamed men I) are little rare, Inflated, bullying, proud, and full of — air. BOBROV. ADDilESS TO THE DEITY. From the Khersonida, p. 41 — 3. O thou unutterable Potentate ! Through nature's vast extent sublimely great ! Thy lovely form the flower-decked field discloses, Thy smiles are seen in nature's sunny face : Milk- coloured lilies and wild blushing roses Are bright with Thee : — Thy voice of gentleness Speaks in the light-winged whispering zephyrs playing Midst the young boughs, or o'er the meadows straying : Thy breath gives life to all ; below, above, And all things revel in thy light and love. 148 B0BB.0V. But here, on these gigantic mountains, here Thy greatness, glory, wisdom, strength, and spirit In terrible sublimity appear ! Thy awe-imposing voice is heard, — we hear it ! Th' Almighty's fearful voice ; attend, it breaks The silence, and in solemn warning speaks : His the light tones that whisper midst the trees ; His, his the whistling of the busy breeze ; His, the storm-thunder roaring, rattling round,* When element with element makes war Amidst the echoing mountains : on whose bound, Whose highest bound he drives his fiery car Glowing like molten iron ; or enshrined In robes of darkness, riding on the wind Across the clouded vault of heaven : — What eye Has not been dazzled by Thy majesty ? * I have endeavoured to imitate the singular adaptation of words to sound, of which the Russian language aifords so many striking examples : Original — Tvoi dukh vsivaet vse boriushchii V sikh — sikh svistjeshchikh vikhrei silakh Srazhaiushchikhsa mezhdu Gov! BOBROV. 149 Where is the ear that has not heard Thee speak ? Thou breathest ! — forest-oaks of centuries Turn their uprooted trunks towards the skies. Thou thunderest ! — adamantine mountains break, Tremble, and totter, and apart are riven ! Thou lightenest ! and the rocks inflame ; thy power Of fire to their metallic bosom driven, Melts and devours them: — Lo ! they are no more: — They pass away like wax in the fierce flame, Or the thick mists that frown upon the sun, Which he but glances at and they are gone ; Or like the sparkling snow upon the hill, When noon-tide darts its penetrating beam. What do I say ? At God's almighty will, The affrighted world falls headlong from its sphere, Planets and suns and systems disappear ! But Thy eternal throne — Thy palace bright, Zion — stands steadfast in unchanging might ; Zion — Thy own peculiar seat — Thy home ! But here, O God ! here is Thy temple too : Heaven's sapphire arch is its resplendent dome ; Its columns — trees that have for ages stood ; 13* 1 50 BOBROV, Its incense is the flower-perfumed dew ; Its symphony — the music of the wood ; Its ornaments — the fairest gems of spring ; Its altar is the stony mountain proud ! Lord ! from this shrine to Thy abode I bring Trembling, devotion's tribute — though not loud, Nor pomp-accompanied : Thy praise I sing, And thou wilt deign to hear the lowly offering. BOBROV. 151 MEDINA. From the Kliersonida. Thou wondrous brother of the prophet, sun ! So brightly on Medina's temple burning ; And scarce less beautiful the crescent moon, When moving gently o'er the shadows dun Of evening : — and their verge to silver turning. O what a lovely, soft tranquillity Rests on the earth and breathes along the sea ! Here is no cedar bent with misery ; No holy cypress sighs or weeps, as seen In other lands, where his dark branches green Mourn in the desert o'er neglected graves : Here his all-sheltering boughs he calmly waves In the dim light, the sacred vigils keeping O'er the blest ashes on earth's bosom sleeping. Picture of God ! upon the prophet's shrine Shine brightly — brightly, beautifully shine Upon those holy fields where once he trod, 152 BOBROV. And flowers sprung up beneath his innocent feet. Tulips and aloes and narcissus, sweet, A lovely carpet for the child of God ! There have our privileged, pilgrim footsteps been, This have we seen — yes, brother ! this have seen : The grave, the life, the ashes, and the dome Eternal and the heavens : and there have bought The grace of God and found the joy we sought, A certain entrance to our final home. And now, be short our houseward way ! Our fathers' habitations now appear ! O with what transports shall we hear them say, With what loud greetings, " Welcome, welcome here !" The swelling-bosom'd wife, the black-hair'd son And black-eyed daughter greet our joyous train, Rushing from our own doors they hither run, And songs of rapture loudly hail us then. Their trembling hands the fragrant aloe bear, Which joyful o'er our wearied limbs they throw; Home of our fathers ! now appear, Our houseward path be shortened now ! 60BR0V. 153 SHEIK-HUIABIS CREED, AS DESCRIBED BY THE CHERIF. From the Khersonida. 'Tis Allah governs this terrestrial ball, To all gives laws, as he gave life to all ! He rules the unnumbered circles bright with bliss That from the ends of heaven send forth then- beams : He rules the space, the infinite abyss, The undefined and wandering ether streams, Where thousand, thousand stars and planets play — What are the laws that guide them on their way ? They are no perishable records — laws Written with pen and ink : — No ! Allah spreads The golden roll of nature : o'er our heads Opens his glorious volume and withdraws The veil of ignorance : read the letters there, That is the blazing, burning record, where The letters are not idle lines, but things : 154 B0BR0V. Read there the name of Allah, dazzling bright, In works of eloquence and ivords of light ! Shut, shut all other books ; and if thy soul, Borne upward on devotion's angel-wings, Soar to the heaven, from earth and earth's control, Thou shalt perceive — shalt know the Deity. His splendors then shall burst upon thy eye, An effluence of noon-tide round thee roll, Thy spirit glad with light and love ; — a sun Of pure philosophy to lead thee on. BOBROV. 155 THE GOLDEN PALACE. CHERTOG TVOI VIZHDU. SUNG AT MIDNIGHT HI THE GREEK CHURCHES THE LAST WEEK BEFORE EASTER. From Ike Sclavonic. The golden palace of my God Tow'ring above the clouds I see : Beyond the cherubs' bright abode, Higher than angels' thoughts can be : How can I in those courts appear Without a wedding garment on ? Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there, Conduct me to Thy glorious throne ! And clothe me with Thy robes of light, And lead me through sin's darksome night. My Saviour and my God ! 15G BOBROV. MIDNIGHT HYMN OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCHES, SUNG AT EASTER. Vskuiu mia esi oostavil. Why hast thou forsaken me ? Why, thou never-setting Light, Is Thy brightness veiled from me ? Why does this unusual night Cloud thy blest benignity ? I am lost without Thy ray ; Guide my wandering footsteps, Lord ! Light my dark and erring way To the noon-tide of Thy word ! BOBROV. 157 IZHE KHERUVIMIJ, OR SONG OF CHERUBIM. THE HYMN CHANTED IN THE RUSSIAN CHURCHES DURING THE PROCESSION OF THE CUP. See the glorious cherubim Thronging round the Eternal's throne ; Hark ! they sing their holy hymn To the unutterable One. All-supporting Deity — Living-spirit — praise to Thee ! Rest, ye worldly tumults, rest ! Here let all be peace and joy : Grief no more shall rend our breast, Tears no more shall dew our eye Heaven-directed spirits rise To the temple of the skies! Join the ranks of angels bright, Near th' Eternal's dazzling light. Khvalim Boga.* Hallelujah 14 15S B0BR0V. BIRTH-DAY. Not the first tribute of our lyre, Not the first fruits of infant spring, But flames from love's long kindled fire, And oft-repeated prayers we bring To crown thy natal day. 'Tis not to-day that first we tell (When was affection's spirit mute ?) How long our hearts have loved — how well — Nor tune our soft and votive flute, Nor light the altar's ray. That altar is our household shrine — Its flame — the bosom's kindly heat : Its offering, sympathy divine ; Its incense, as the may-dew sweet : Accept thy children's lay. BOBROV. 159 RULES FOR THE HEART AND THE UNDER- STANDING. 1. O son of nature! let self-culture be The object of thy earliest toils : as yet Thy lamp burns bright — thy day shines glori- ously — Thou canst not labour when thy sun is set ! 2. Wouldst thou The Unseen Spirit see : First learn to know thyself; and He "Will then be shadowed forth in thee ] 3. God is a spirit through creation's whole, As in this mortal tenement — the soul. 4. The sun that gives the world its fairest light Is not yon orb welcomed by the morning hour, And by the eve expelled ; — it is the power Of an enlightening conscience pure and bright. 160 BOBROV. 5. Mark where thou standest first: and whence thou'rt come. And whither goest, and straight speed thee home. 6. The woe to come, the woe that's gone, Philosophy thinks calmly on : But show me the philosopher Who calmly bears the woes that are. 7. How wise is he who marks the fleeting day By acts of virtue as it rolls away ! 8. Be all thy views right forward, clear, and even : The straightest line the soonest leads to heaven. 9. Thou wouldst count all things, proud philosophy, Now measure space and weigh eternity ! 10. First purify thy heart : then light thy mind With wisdom's lamp, and thou pure bliss shalt find. B0BR0V. 161 11. The most perverted spirit has greatness in it, The very savage bears a heart that's noble. 12. Virtue, though loveliest of all lovely things, From modesty apart no more is fair ; And when her graceful veil aside she flings, (Like ether opened to th' intrusive air) Loses her sweetest charms and stands a cypher, there. 14* BOGDANOVICH. FROM THE DUSHENKA. p. 8. "Twere vainly daring through dark time to range, Seeking those sounds, which in eternal change Were consecrate to beauty : its short day Of fashion each possessed and passed away : But let the poet be allowed to say, That the fair royal maiden, youngest child Of th' eastern monarch, whom with passion wild So many sighed for day and night, Was by the Greeks called Psyche — meaning (According to our learned ones' explaining) A soul, or spirit : — our philosophers Thinking that all that 's tender, fair, and bright, Must needs be hers, 166 BOGDANOVICH. Named her Dushenka ;* — thus A word so sweet, so musical to us, With all the charm of novelty, O loveliest Psyche, was conferred on thee. Conveyed from tongue to tongue, its throne it found In memory's archives : — its melodious sound Now breathes the angel-harmony of love, A music and a radiance from above. * Dusha — Dushenka its diminutive, a word expressing great tenderness and fondness. BOGDANOVICH. 1&7 FROM THE DUSHENKA. p. 49. Dushenka ! Dushenka ! the robes that thou wearest Seem ever most lovely and fitting ; Whether clad like a queen of the east thou appear- est, Or plain as a shepherdess sitting By the door of her cottage at evening's calm tide, Thou still art the charm of the world and its pride. Thou fairest of saints that devotion has sainted, Divinest of all the divine : — All the pictures of beauty that art ever painted Can re communicated to him. His friend reminded him of his forgetfulness. Khenmitzer was greatly distressed, and in his per- plexity, instead of his handkerchief, he put his host's napkin into his pocket. On rising from table Khemnitzer endeavoured to slip away unobserved; his friend saw him, followed him, and tried to de- tain him. Khemnitzer reproached him for unveil- ing his weaknesses, and would not listen to any entreaties. " Leave my napkin then, at least, which you pocketed at table," said the other. Khemnitzer drew it forth, and stood like a statue. The loud laugh of the company recovered him from his trance, and with the utmost good nature he joined in the general mirth. A very handsome edition of his fables was pub- lished in Petersburg, 1799, under the title Basni i Skaski I. I. Khemnitzera v trekh chastcekh, Khem- 20 230 BIOGRAPHICAL AND nitzer's Fables and Tales. The third part consists of posthumous fables, printed for the first time in this edition. In Germany the works of Khemnitzer have been often spoken of as models and master pieces.* Some of them are imitations of La Fontaine, some of Gellert,! but they are principally original. They are remarkable for their purity of style — genuine Russian character — their naivete and descriptive charms— their poetical smoothness — their singular simplicity — and an original epigrammatic wit, most felicitously applied. *In No. 22 of the " Freimtithigen" Kluschin speaks very approvingly of the fables of Khemnitzer, and gives as an exam- ple " The Lion's Mandate." In a following number an anony- mous writer claims this fable for La Fontaine. It is singular enough that the Russian copy was never written by Khemnitzer, though it was published in a volume of his fables, but under the title of Chu~Iiiicc Basni, Fables by other Authors. t The imitations are always distinguished in the index from the originals. CRITICAL NOTICES. 231 K O S T R O V. Ermil Ivanovich Kostrov was born in the Vjetskish province. His father was a vassal of the crown. He received the first part of his education in the common school of his neighbourhood, and, in consequence of his display of talent, was sent to the Moscow university, where he obtained the rank of bachelor of arts, and was advanced to the post of provincial secretary in 1782. He died on the 9th of December 1796. A collection of his poetry, which had been scattered in different publications, was made in 1802 in two volumes. His translations, which are much admired, are Homer's Iliad, of which the seventh, eighth, and ninth books were first printed in the European Herald, Vastnik Ev- ropi. It is said he offered the last six books to a bookseller, and the liberal tradesman offering him only one hundred and fifty rubles (about ll. 10s. 232 BIOGRAPHICAL AND sterling) for his labours, the offended poet threw the translation into the fire. The first six books are the only ones which have been collected. Apuleev solotoi osel, Apuleius' Golden Ass ; Ossian, from a French version, on which he has greatly improved ; Elvir i Zenotemsh, a poem of Ardouro j and Voltaire's Tactique in verse. CRITICAL NOTICES. 233 KARAMSIN. Nicolai Michaelovich Karamsin was born in the province of Limbersk on the 1st of Decem- ber 1765. His earliest instructer was Professor Schaden, of Moscow, from whose care he was re- moved to the university of that place. In 1789-91 he travelled through central Europe, and published in 1791 and 1801 his PVsma Russkago Puieshest- vennika, Letters of a Russian Traveller, which have been translated into English. He took up his abode at Moscow on his return, and was ap- pointed the imperial historiographer in 1803. From his earliest youth he exhibited a striking fondness for literary pursuits, and a great number of his translations were printed in the Journal Dcctskoechenie, Children's Reading book. The Idyl Derevannaje, The Wooden Foot, was publish- ed in 1787. In the years 1792 and 1793 he pub- lished the Moskovskij Zhurnal, Moscow Journal, 20* 234 BIOGRAPHICAL AND in eight volumes. In 1794, two parts of Aglaia, In 1797-8 and 9, a Collection of Poems, entitled JLonidi. In 1798, his Panteon inostrannoi sloves- nosti, Pantheon of Foreign Literature, in three parts. In 1802-3, Vastnik Evropi, European Herald, in twelve volumes. His compositions, which were printed in the newspapers at Moscow, he published in 1794 with the title Moi Besdcelkiy My Trifles. Besides these, have been published his Rosgavor o shchastii, Discourse on Happiness ; 1798, Julia, a Tale ; and PokhvaVnoe slovo Ekat- erince Velikoi, Eulogium on Catherine the Great. In 1804 a collection of his works was printed in eight volumes. His great work, The History of Russia, has been mentioned elsewhere in this volume. CRITICAL NOTICES. 235 ZHUKOVSKY. Vassilj Andrejevich Zhukovs.'y was born in 1783. He was educated in the public school at Tula and in the Moscow University, which he left in 1803. He held afterwards an appointment from the Russian government. In 1808 and 1809 he edited the Vcestnik Evropi, European Herald, ifl which he was afterwards joined by Kachenovsky. He has translated Florian's Don Quixote into Russian, and published in 1810-11, the best col- lection of Russian poetry I am acquainted with, Sobranie Rushkikh Stikhoivorenii, in 5 vols. Most of his productions were originally printed in the above periodical. Of his poetical composi- tions, the most esteemed are Marina roshcha, Mary's Goat, a tale ; The Moje Boginje, My God- dess, from Gothe ; JLiudmilla, dean ad tzat sjjjcsh- chikh d