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 <rive no idea of thine !
 
 16S 
 
 BOGDANOVICH. 
 
 THE INEXPERIENCED SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 A POPULAR SONG. 
 
 I'm fourteen summers old 1 trow, 
 'Tis time to look about me now : 
 'Twas only yesterday they said, 
 I was a silly, silly maid; — 
 
 'Tis time to look about me now. 
 
 The shepherd-swains so rudely stare, 
 I must reprove them I declare ; 
 This talks of beauty — thai of love — 
 I'm such a fool I can't reprove — 
 I must reprove them I declare. 
 
 'Tis strange — but yet I hope no sin ; 
 So.nething unwonted speaks within: 
 Love's language is a mystery, 
 And yet I feel, and yet I see, — 
 O what is this that speaks within ?
 
 BOGDANOVICH. 169 
 
 The shepherd cries, " I love thee, sweet ;" 
 " And I love thee," my lips repeat : 
 Kind words, they sound as sweet to me 
 As music's fairest melody ; 
 
 " I love thee," oft my lips repeat. 
 
 His pledge he brings, — I'll not reprove ; 
 O no ! I'll take that pledge of love ; 
 To thee my guardian dog I'd give, 
 Could I without that guardian live : 
 But still I'll take thy pledge of love. 
 
 My shepherd's crook I'll give to thee ; — 
 O no ! my father gave it me — 
 And treasures by a parent given, 
 From a fond child should ne'er be riven — 
 O no ! my father gave it me. 
 
 But thou shah have yon lambkin fair — 
 Nay ! 'tis my mother's fondest care ; 
 For every day she joys to count 
 Each snowy lambkin on the mount ; — 
 I'll give thee then no lambkin fair. 
 
 15
 
 170 BOGDANOVICH 
 
 But stay, my shepherd ! wilt thou be 
 For ever faithful — fond to me ? 
 A sweeter gift I'll then impart, 
 And thou shalt have — a maiden's heart, 
 If thou wilt give thy heart to me.
 
 BOGDANOVICH. 171 
 
 SONG FROM THE OLD RUSSIAN. 
 
 Hark ! those tones of music stealing 
 Through yon wood at even : 
 
 Sweetest songs that breathe a feeling 
 Pure and bright as heaven. 
 
 Nightingales in chorus near thee, 
 All their notes are blending j 
 
 Then they stop their songs to hear thee ; 
 Silent — unpretending.
 
 172 B0GDAN0VICH. 
 
 SONG FROM THE OLD RUSSIAN. 
 
 What to the maiden has happened ? 
 What to the gem of the village 2 
 Ah ! to the gem of the village. 
 
 Seated alone in her cottage, 
 Tremblingly turned to the window ; 
 Ah ! ever turned to the window. 
 
 Like the sweet bird in its prison, 
 Pining and panting for freedom ; 
 Ah ! how 'tis pining for freedom ! 
 
 Crowds of her youthful companions 
 
 Come to console the lov'd maiden ; 
 
 Ah ! to console the lov'd maiden.
 
 BOGDANOVICH. 173 
 
 " Smile then, our sister ! be joyful, 
 Clouds of dust cover the valley ; 
 Oh ! see, they cover the valley. 
 
 " Smile then, our sister ! be joyful, 
 List to the hoof-beat of horses ; 
 O ! to the hoof-beat of horses." 
 
 Then the maid looked through the window, 
 Saw the dust-clouds in the valley ; 
 O ! the dust-clouds in the valley. 
 
 Heard the hoof-beat of the horses, 
 Hurried away from the cottage ; 
 O ! to the valley she hurries. 
 
 " Welcome ! O welcome ! thou loved one :' 
 See, she has sunk on his bosom ; 
 O ! she has sunk on his bosom. 
 
 15*
 
 174 BOGDANOVICH. 
 
 Now all her grief is departed : 
 She has forsaken the window j 
 O ! quite forsaken the window. 
 
 Now her eye looks on her loved one, 
 
 Beaming with brightness and beauty ; 
 
 O ! 'tis all brightness and beauty.
 
 DAVIDOV. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 While honouring the grape's ruby nectar, 
 
 All sportingly, laughingly gay ; 
 We determined — I, Silva, and Hector, 
 
 To drive old dame Wisdom away. 
 
 " O my children, take care," said the beldame, 
 " Attend to these counsels of mine : 
 
 Get not tipsy ! for danger is seldom 
 Remote from the goblet of wine." 
 
 " With thee in his company, no man 
 Can err," said our wag with a wink ; 
 
 " But come, thou good-natured old woman, 
 There's a drop in the goblet — and drink !"
 
 178 DAVIDOY. 
 
 She frowned — but her scruples soon twisting, 
 
 Consented : — and smilingly said : 
 " So polite — there's indeed no resisting, 
 
 For Wisdom was never ill-bred." 
 
 She drank, but continued her teaching : 
 " Let the wise from indulgence refrain ;" 
 
 And never gave over her preaching, 
 But to say, " Fill the goblet again." 
 
 And she drank, and she totter'd, but still she 
 
 Was talking and shaking her head : 
 Muttered " temperance" — " prudence" — until she 
 
 Was carried by Folly* to bed. 
 
 The original has Love.
 
 .WIPTOTs
 
 KOSTROV. 
 
 THE VOW. 
 
 The rose is my favourite flower : 
 On its tablets of crimson I swore, 
 That up to my last living hour 
 I never would think of thee more. 
 
 I scarcely the record had made, 
 Ere Zephyr, in frolicsome play, 
 On his light, airy pinions convey'd 
 Both tablet and promise away. 
 16
 
 182 
 
 HISTORY OF MAN. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 What is man's history ? Born — living — dying — 
 Leaving the still shore for the troubled wave — 
 Struggling with storm-winds, over shipwrecks fly- 
 
 And casting anchor in the silent grave. 
 
 B.
 
 !JHh
 
 NELEDINSKY MELETZKY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Under the oak-tree, near the rill, 
 Sits my fair maiden at evening still, 
 Singing her song, her song of love, 
 Sweetly it warbles through the grove. 
 
 The nightingale heard the heavenly tone, 
 And blended the music with his own : 
 My ears drink in the wondrous strain, 
 And my spirit re-echoes the song again. 
 
 How oft the zephyrs have brought to me 
 Delighted, those accents of harmony ! 
 How oft have I blamed the jealous breeze 
 That scattered the music midst the trees ! 
 
 16*
 
 186 NELEDINSKY MELETZKY. 
 
 Listen awhile, thou nightingale — 
 Echo the song from hill to vale : 
 Though hill and vale enraptured be, 
 Sweeter the music sounds to me !
 
 "N'ELEDINSKY MELETZKY. 187 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To the streamlet I'll repair, 
 Look upon its flight, and say : 
 " Bear, O fleeting streamlet ! bear 
 All my griefs with thine away." 
 
 Ah ! I breathe the wish in vain ! 
 In this silent solitude 
 Counted is each throb of pain ; — 
 Rest is melancholy's food. 
 
 Waves with waves unceasing blend, 
 Hurrying to their destiny : 
 Even so, thoughts with thoughts, and tend 
 All alike to misery. 
 
 And what grief so dark, so deep 
 As the grief interred within ? 
 By the friend, for whom 1 weep, 
 All unnoticed, all unseen.
 
 188 NELEDINSKY MELETZKY. 
 
 Yet, could I subdue my pain, 
 Soothe affection's rankling smart, 
 Ne'er would I resume again 
 The lost empire of my heart. 
 
 Thou, my love ! art sovereign there, 
 There thou hast a living shrine : 
 Let my portion be despair, 
 If the light of bliss be thine. 
 
 Loved by thee, O might I live, 
 'Neath the darkest, stormiest sky : 
 'Twere a blest alternative ! 
 Grief is joy, if thou be nigh. 
 
 Every wish and every pray'r 
 Is a tribute paid to thee : 
 Every heart-beat — there, O there, 
 Thou hast mightiest sovereignty. 
 
 To thee, nameless one ! to thee 
 Still my thoughts, my passions turn \
 
 NELED1NSKY MELETZKY. 18§ 
 
 'Tis through thee alone I see, 
 
 Think, and feel, and breathe, and burn. 
 
 If the woe in which 1 live, 
 Ever reach thy generous ear,; 
 Pity not — but O forgive 
 Thy devoted worshipper ! 
 
 In some hour of careless bliss, 
 Deign my bosom's fire to prove : 
 Prove it with an icy kiss — 
 Thou shalt know how much I love !
 
 190 NELEDINSKY MELETZKY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 He whom misery, dark and dreary, 
 Robs of all his spirit's strength ; 
 Hopeless — but that wasted, weary, 
 Nature shall repose at length — 
 Not a joy to sparkle o'er him, 
 Not a ray of promised light ; 
 Till the deep grave yawns before him, 
 Till his eye is closed in night. 
 
 Such am I ; — time's changes borrow 
 All their interest from thee : 
 Life is but a midnight sorrow, 
 Thou life's sun-shine veiled from me. 
 But those hopes, with angels seated, 
 Life and death can ne'er subdue ; 
 And the heart to thee related, 
 Needs must be immortal too.
 
 NELEDINSKY MELETZKY. 191 
 
 Can that spirit ever perish, 
 Which divine emotions fill ? 
 Thee on earth I loved to cherish, 
 Thee in heaven must cherish still ; 
 Like a shadow to thee clinging, 
 Ever following — ever nigh ; 
 Up to thee each look is springing, 
 Every word, and thought, and sigh. 
 
 Up to thee, my saint, my lover ? 
 Up to thee my soul is led : 
 Spirit, wilt thou deign to hover, 
 O'er my green and grassy bed ? 
 Wilt thou from thy throne descending, 
 Catch thy fond one's dying breath ? 
 Wilt thou, near his tomb attending, 
 Consecrate the dreams of death I
 
 192 
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 T. 
 
 Upon its little turfy hill, the desert's charm and 
 
 pride, 
 The tall oak in his majesty extends his branches 
 
 wide : 
 His shadow covers half the waste, and there he 
 
 stands alone, 
 Like a poor soldier on the watch, a sad abandoned 
 
 one ! 
 And who when wakes the glowing sun, thy friend- 
 ly shade shall seek? 
 Or shield thee when the thunder rolls, and when 
 
 the lightnings break? 
 No graceful pine protects thee now, no willow 
 
 waves its head, 
 No sheltering ivy's dark green leaves are midst 
 
 thy branches spread !
 
 NATIONAL SONCS. 193 
 
 Alas ! 'tis sad to stand alone, thus banished from 
 
 the grove : 
 But bitterer far for youth to mourn divided from 
 
 his love ! 
 Though gold and silver, wealth and fame, and 
 
 honours he possess, 
 With none t' enjoy them, none to share, they are 
 
 but nothingness. 
 Cold is the converse of the world — a greeting, and 
 
 no more ! 
 And beauty's converse colder still — a word, and 
 
 all is o'er : 
 Some shun my presence, and from some scorn 
 
 bids my spirit fly : 
 Though all are lovers, all are friends, till tempests 
 
 veil the sky. 
 But where's the breast where I may sleep, when 
 
 those dark moments come ? 
 For he who loved me cannot hear; he slumbers in 
 
 the tomb ! 
 Alas ! I long have lost the joys of friend and 
 
 family, 
 
 17
 
 194 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 And the fair maid that I adore looks carelessly on 
 me : 
 
 No aged parents on our heads their benedictions 
 pour : 
 
 No children to our bosoms creep, or play upon 
 our floor ; 
 
 O take away your wealth, your fame, your hon- 
 ours, treasures vile, 
 
 And give me in their stead, a home — a love — and 
 love's sweet smile.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 195 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou field of my own, thou field so fair ! 
 So wide, extensive, fertile there ! 
 Adorned with gems so gay and bright — 
 With flowers, and butterflies, and bees, 
 And plants, and shrubs, and leafy trees — 
 Thou hast but one ungrateful sight ! 
 
 See there upon the broom-tree's bough, 
 The young gray eagle flapping now, 
 O'er the raven black that he tears asunder, 
 Whose warm red blood is dropping under, 
 And sprinkles the moistened ground below ; 
 The raven black — a wild one he ! 
 And the eagle gray — his enemy ! 
 
 No swallow, gliding round and round 
 His homely happy nest, is found ; —
 
 196 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 But a mother is seen in the darksome vale, 
 Or sad by the raging ocean's tide ; 
 A sister sighs on the fountain's side, 
 A lover weeps in the night-dews pale — 
 The sun shines forth — the dews are dried.* 
 
 * This composition refers, no doubt, to some historical or 
 traditionary tale, without the knowledge of which it would 
 seem unintelligible. I translate it as rather a striking speci- 
 men of popular Russian songs.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. I9f 
 
 III* 
 
 A young maid sat upon the streamlet's side, 
 And thought most tearfully on her bitter fate : 
 Her bitter fate, and on departed time — 
 Departed time — the glad, exulting time j 
 And there the lovely maiden robed herself, 
 She robed herself, with many adornings robed, 
 And waited anxious for her trusted friend — 
 Waited for her trusted friend : — a ruffian he ! 
 He played the ruffian with the maid and fled : — 
 Alas ! love's flower of hope is withered ! 
 
 Well may that lonely flower decay and die ! 
 She calls in vain — she wipes her tears away : 
 Thee, rapid streamlet! they may fill, and roll 
 
 * The peculiarities of the original are preserved in this 
 song ; such repetitions as here occur are quite characteristic of 
 the national poetry of Russia. 
 17*
 
 198 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 Over thy bosom — make thy bed of tears : 
 " I had adorned me for that faithless friend, 
 That faithless friend is fled : — he hath stolen all, 
 All my possessions but my grief : — that grief 
 He left in mercy, if that grief can kill. 
 Come, death ! I veil me in thy shadows dim — 
 To thee I fly, as once I flew to him !"
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL 
 NOTICES.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL 
 NOTICES. 
 
 LOMONOSOV. 
 
 Michael Vassiljevich Lomonosov was born 
 in Cholmognie in 1711. He was the son of a sailor. 
 He studied Latin and Greek, rhetoric and poetry, 
 in Sakonospaskoe Uchilishchce. In 1734 he en- 
 tered the imperial academy, and two years after- 
 wards was sent to Germany as a student. On his 
 return to Petersburg he was appointed to the pro- 
 fessorship of Chemistry; in 1751 he was made 
 associate of the academy, and in 1760 called to the 
 directorship of the academical gymnasium and of 
 the university. He died in 1765. 
 
 The Petersburg Academy of Sciences published 
 a complete collection of his works, in sixteen vol-
 
 202 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 umes, which reached a third edition in 1804. 
 They comprise the following remarkable list, ex- 
 hibiting a rare diversity of subjects : among them 
 his prose productions are : Kratkii Latopisetz, 
 Short Russian Annals; Drevnjeje Rossiukaje Islo- 
 I'ije, Oldest Russian History, from the beginning of 
 the Russian people to the death of the great prince 
 Jaropolk the First, i. e. down to the year 1054 ; 
 Rossiiskaje Grammatika, Russian Grammar; Kra- 
 tkoe Rukovodetvo k Krasnorcechiiu, Short Introduc- 
 tion to Rhetoric; Pismo o pravilakh Rossiiskago 
 stikhomvorstva, Letter on the Rules of Russian 
 Poetry ; Predislovie o polzce Tcnig tzerkovmkh, 
 Remarks on the Uses of Church-Books ; Slovo 
 pokhvalnoe Imperatritzce Elisavetce I., Eulogium 
 on the Empress Elizabeth (which he himself 
 translated into Latin) ; Slovo pokhvalnoe Impcra- 
 toru Petru Vclikomu, Eulogium on Peter the 
 Great ; Slovo o polzce Khimii, On the Use of 
 Chemistry ; Slovo o jevlenijekh vosdushnikh ot 
 Elektricheskoi silt proizkhodjeshchikh, On Electri- 
 cal Phenomena;' Slovo o proizkhozhdenii sceta no- 
 ruin teriiu o tzvatakh predstavljeiushchee, On the 
 Origin of Light, exhibiting the new theory of
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 203 
 
 Colours ; Slovo o pozhdenii Met alio v ot trjesenije 
 zemli, On the Changes produced on Metals by- 
 Earthquakes ; Rosuzhdenie o bolshei tochnosti 
 Morskago putt, On the means of obtaining the 
 greatest correctness in Sea Voyages ; Jevlenie Ve- 
 neris na solntzce, Appearance of Venus on the Sun's 
 Disk ; Programme sochinennaje tri nachalce chen- 
 ije is jesncnije Phisiki, Programma, introductory 
 to Lectures on Physic; Opisanie v nachalce 1744 
 goda jevivshijesje Kometi, Description of the Com- 
 et of 1744 ; Pervije osnovanije Metalhirgii, Intro- 
 duction to Metallurgy ; Shestnadtzaf piset k J. J. 
 Shuvalovu, Sixteen Letters to J. J. Shuvalov. 
 
 His poems are — two books of an Heroic Epic, 
 entitled Peter f^elikii, Peter the Great ; T amir a i 
 Selim, a Tragedy; Dcmophont, a Tragedy; Pis mo 
 o polzce stekla, A Poetical Epistle on the Uses of 
 Glass, addressed to Shuvalov ; Oda na Shchastiee, 
 Ode to Happiness, from the French of J. B. Rous- 
 seau ; Vanchannaje nadezhda Rossiiskoi Imperii, 
 The Garlanded Hope of the Russian Empire, from 
 the German of Professor Junker ; eleven spiritual 
 odes; encomiastic odes; forty- nine laudatory in- 
 scriptions ; poem on a fire-work ; Poly dor e, an
 
 204 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Idyl, and sundry smaller pieces ; imitations of 
 Anacreon, poetical epistles, translations, &ic. &c. 
 Besides his philosophical prose writings, he pub- 
 lished Rasgovor v tzarstvce Mertvikh, Dialogue in 
 the Realms of Death, between Alexander the 
 Great, Hannibal, and Scipio, from the Greek of 
 Lucan ; and Rasgavor utro, A Discourse on Morn- 
 ing, from Erasmus.
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 205 
 
 DERZHAVIN. 
 
 Gabriel Romanovich Derzhavin was born 
 at Kasan on the 3d of July, 1743. The elements 
 of instruction were given to him in the house of 
 his parents; he then studied in private academies, 
 and afterwards completed his education in the 
 imperial gymnasium. In 17G0 he was inscribed 
 in the engineer military service ; and in the fol- 
 lowing year, as a reward for his great progress in 
 the mathematics, and for his excellent description 
 of the Bulgarian ruins on the banks of the Wolga, 
 he was placed in the ranks of the Preobrashenshe 
 regiment. From the year 17G2 he was promoted 
 through the different gradations to the rank of 
 ensign, which he held in 1772, and he obtained 
 great credit for his prudence and ability while en- 
 gaged as lieutenant in the corps sent to reduce Pu- 
 gachev in 1774. He advanced uninterruptedly in 
 his military career till in 17S4 he was made a 
 18
 
 206 S-IOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 counsellor of state, and appointed to the govern- 
 ment first of Oloretz and afterwards of Tambov. 
 In 1791 the Empress Catherine the Second gave 
 him the office of secretary of state ; in 1793 he was 
 called to the senate, and the next year he was 
 made president of the college of Commerce. In 
 the year 1800 he was appointed to the post of 
 public cashier, and in 1802 to that of minister of 
 justice. His official career was soon after closed 
 by his retiring on his full allowance, in the eve- 
 ning of his days, to the enjoyment of the fruits of 
 his long and active labours. 
 
 Such a life would appear little calculated for the 
 pursuit of intellectual pleasures, or for the cultiva- 
 tion of poetical talents ; but the energies of these 
 seem to be alike uninfluenced by the burthens of 
 pomp or the privations of poverty. None is too 
 high to bend down to the attractive voice of song 
 — none too low to be raised by the awakening call 
 of the lyre. 
 
 The most celebrated compositions of Derzhavin 
 are, his Ode to God ; Felizia ; On the Birth of 
 Alexander; The First Neighbour ; On the Death 
 of Count Meshchersky ; On the Swedish Peace ;
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 207 
 
 The Fountain ; The Waterfall ; Autumn ; and 
 the Anacreontic Songs. His Poems were printed 
 in four volumes in 1808. 
 
 Of his prose works (his official ones of course 
 excepted) the most celebrated are : Rack ot litza 
 Kazanskago dvorjenstva Imperatritzce Ekaterince, 
 II, Address of the Kasan Eagle to the Empress 
 Catherine the Second ; Topographiclicskoe op- 
 shanie Tambovskoi Gubernii, Topographical Des- 
 cription of the Tambov Government; Rcech na 
 otkritie v Tambovce Narodnago ichilishcha, Ad- 
 dress on the opening of the Tambov Public School, 
 republished in Petersburg and translated into sev- 
 eral languages ; Razsuzhdenie o liricheskom Stik- 
 hotvorstvce, On Lyric Poetry, published by a 
 Society of Amateurs of Russian Literature in 
 1811.
 
 208 BIOGRAPHICAL ANU 
 
 BOGDANOVICH. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM KARAMSIN's VffiSTNIK.^ 
 
 Hippol'itus Bogdanovich was born under the 
 beautiful heaven of Little Russia, in the village of 
 Perevolotchno, in the year 1743. His father was 
 a respectable physician, to whose affectionate care 
 and to that of an excellent mother, he owed the 
 first rudiments of knowledge. The talents which 
 often require long years to ripen and to perfect, 
 sometimes exhibit their blossoms in very early 
 youth, and Bogd&aovich while quite a child show- 
 ed a passionate fondness for reading and writing, 
 for music and poetry. 
 
 He was brought to Moscow in 1754, and placed 
 in the college of justice. The President Shelje- 
 bushsky noticed the active and inquiring spirit of 
 the boy, and allowed him to attend the mathemat- 
 
 * A Periodical Journal — See p. 23-3.
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 209 
 
 ical school, which was at that time in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the senate. But mathematics were 
 nothing to him ; — the sweet poetry of Lomonosov, 
 who now began to captivate his countrymen, was 
 dearer to his mind than all the transpositions of 
 lines or figures. Nothing, perhaps, is so likely 
 to produce a strong and permanent impression on 
 the heart of a young enthusiast, as the pomp, 
 parade, and poetry of the Drama. What wonder 
 then that a fiery boy, introduced for the first time 
 to its witcheries, should be led to some act of 
 giddy imprudence ! A youth of fifteen once pre- 
 sented himself to the director of the Moscow 
 theatre, modestly and almostly unwillingly owning 
 — he was a nobleman — he would be an actor. 
 The director had some conversation with him, and 
 soon ascertained his love of knowledge and his 
 poetical ardour. He painted in strong colours the 
 incompatibility of an actor's character with that of 
 nobility, — he urged him to inscribe himself in the 
 university, and to visit him at his house. This 
 young man was no other than our Bogdanovich, — 
 that director was no other than Michael Matvee- 
 vich Kheraskov, the poet of the Russmd. Thus 
 18*
 
 210 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 did a lucky accident bring this scholar of the muses 
 to their favourite bard ; one who, possessed of 
 extraordinary talent himself, was not slow to dis- 
 cover and to honour it in others. From him 
 did Bogdanovich learn the rules and the ornaments 
 of poetry ; he studied foreign languages, and ac- 
 quired whatever else might give strength and en- 
 couragement to his natural powers. Study, it is 
 true, is no creator of genius, but it serves to 
 exhibit it in all its most beautiful and mighty influ- 
 ence. Kheraskov gave him examples, precepts, 
 encouragements ; and in the university-journal of 
 this period, Polesnoe Uveselenie, we find many 
 specimens of the powers of the young bard. 
 These, though yet far removed from perfection, 
 are striking proofs of his ability to reach it. 
 
 Besides Kheraskov, our young poet possessed, 
 while lie remained at the university, another inval- 
 uable protector in Count Michael Ivanovich 
 Dashkov. The favours conferred by rank and 
 influence on talents just developing themselves, 
 create a grateful and well-rewarding return; while, 
 on the other hand, the fair and delicate flowers of 
 youthful genius are but too often and too early
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 211 
 
 blasted by the cold winds of neglect. But let it 
 be said in Russia's honour, that talent has never 
 wanted patronage there, especially if accompanied 
 by moral worth. This was eminently the case 
 with Bogdanovich. Like La Fontaine, in whose 
 poetical steps he seems to have trodden, he was 
 distinguished by the most attractive ingenuousness. 
 Ere he was eighteen he held his station in the 
 great and busy world, but held it with the simpli- 
 city of a child. Whatever he felt, he uttered ; 
 whatever pleased him, he did; he listened willing- 
 ly to the wisdom of others, and fell asleep during 
 the tiresome lessons of folly. It was our young 
 bard's good fortune to live with a poet who exact- 
 ed the productions of his muse as the price of his 
 protection and his counsels, leaving every thing 
 else to his own waywardness. His open-hearted- 
 ness often led him into perplexities, but no sooner 
 did he perceive that his conversation had inflicted 
 on any a feeling or thought of sorrow, than he la- 
 mented his inconsiderateness with tears. He 
 determined again and again to talk more warily ; 
 the resolution was, however, soon forgotten, and
 
 212 BIOGRAPHICAL AN© 
 
 succeeded by regret and repentance and renewed 
 vows. 
 
 He was not rich ; he often had nothing to give 
 the poor, but sympathy. Is not this often more 
 grateful to the receiver, and always more honour- 
 able to the giver, than the pieces of gold extorted 
 by misery from the coldness of pride and of afflu- 
 ence ? Towards his friends and acquaintance, he 
 was kindness and urbanity itself. On one occa- 
 sion a fire broke out in the neighbourhood of one 
 of his connexions. Bogdanovich sprung from his 
 bed, and in spite of the bad weather and the dis- 
 tance, hurried to the assistance of his friend, clad 
 only in his night garment. 
 
 His dwelling was with an estimable family, who 
 treated him as a near and dear relative, and he 
 returned their kindness with ever-active affection. 
 
 We must here linger a little on one mark of 
 character, common indeed to all genuine poets ; — 
 a lively sensibility to female charms, a sensibility 
 which has been the creator of some of the sweet- 
 est songs of the choir of bards. In one who, like 
 Bogdanovich, was born to be the poet of the gra- 
 ces, this mighty sympathy could not but be early
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 213 
 
 developed among the sensibilities of his character. 
 In its origin it is timid and unpretending — in him 
 it was peculiarly so. He saw, he felt, he suppli- 
 cated, he blushed — and uttered his emotions in his 
 harmonious songs. Stern indeed must have been 
 the beauty that could not be moved by that melo- 
 dious lyre ! 
 
 In 1T61 Bogdanovich was appointed inspector 
 of the Moscow university, with the rank of officer. 
 Soon after he was joined to the commission ap- 
 pointed to make the arrangements for celebrating 
 the coronation of Catherine the Second, in Mos- 
 cow. He was fixed on for preparing the inscrip- 
 tions on the triumphal gates and arches. In 1763, 
 through the recommendation of the Countess 
 Dashkov, he was employed by Panin as a trans- 
 lator ; and at this period he published a journal 
 entitled, Nevinnoe Uprashnenie, Innocent Recrea- 
 tion, to which his protectress, and the protectress 
 of literature, of native literature especially, most 
 generously contributed. And now our poet soared 
 in loftier flights : he translated most felicitously 
 many of Voltaire's poems, especially that on the 
 Destruction of Lisbon, in which his version has
 
 214 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 added greatly to the beauty and the strength of 
 the original. A number of pieces, distinguished 
 for the exquisiteness of the feeling and the pecul- 
 iar harmony of the expression directed the public 
 attention to him. Among these is that beautiful 
 song to Climene : 
 
 Yes ! since bliss is now my lot, 
 I will live to love thee, fairest: 
 Thou, that / may live, will not 
 ]Vow refuse to love ine, dearest ! 
 
 In 1765 he published a poem with the title, The, 
 Doubled Bliss. It is divided into three parts, the 
 first of which is a description of the golden age ; 
 the second, a history of the progress of civilization 
 and of knowledge, with pictures of the misdirection 
 and misuse of the human passions ; the last, on 
 the salutary influence of laws and governments. 
 This undertaking was too vast for the youthful 
 strength of the poet. The work had some re- 
 deeming beauties, but it made little impression 
 upon society in general, though at this period the 
 laurels were rapidly growing that were to crown 
 the brow of Bogdanovich ; — but those laurels were 
 then unnoticed.
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 215 
 
 In 1766 he went with Count Beloselsky as sec- 
 retary of legation to Dresden. The amiable 
 character of this ambassador, the brilliant society 
 which he took with him and gathered round him, 
 the attractive and picturesque neighbourhood of 
 his dwelling, his high appreciation of the arts, 
 made the poet's abode so delightful to him, that 
 it left the fairest record on his memory, and pro- 
 duced a happy influence on the character of his 
 writings. While he wandered enchanted on the 
 flowery borders of the Elbe, whose nymphs, 
 worthy of that magnificent stream, excited all the 
 strength of his glowing fancy ; while the works of 
 Coreggio, Rubens, and Paul Veronese charmed 
 his eye and guided his mind in the beautiful crea- 
 tion of his Dushenka, which now engaged it ; he 
 was at the same time busied in writing a Descrip- 
 tion of Germany, and in all the duties of his office 
 he united the charms of a man of the world, a 
 friend of science, and a poet. 
 
 He left Dresden in 1768 and hastened back to 
 his own country, devoting himself wholly to the 
 cultivation of knowledge and the charms of song. 
 He translated many articles from the Encyclopedic,
 
 216 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Vertot's History of the Changes of the Roman 
 Republic, St. Pierre's Treatise on Permanent 
 Peace, and the Poem of an Italian writer, Michael 
 Angelo Gignetti, then settled at Petersburg. The 
 subject was Catherine the Great, which led to his 
 introduction to that empress. He next published 
 a periodical, of which sixteen numbers appeared 
 (f^cestnik Petersburgsky) ; and at last, in 1775, he 
 laid his beautiful poem Dushenka on the altar of 
 the Graces. He ever afterwards spoke with en- 
 thusiastic delight of that part of his life which had 
 been employed in this work. His abode was then 
 at Petersburg, on the Vussiliostrov, in a silent 
 solitary dwelling, wholly wrapt in poetry and mu- 
 sic, enjoying an enviable and care-divested liberty. 
 He had agreeable acquaintances ; — he sometimes 
 went out, but always to return with keener pleas- 
 ure to a home where the muses welcomed him 
 with renewed fondness, with hope and fancy's 
 fairest flowers. The tranquil, unuttered, unuttera- 
 ble joy of the poet is perhaps the sweetest and 
 brightest that this world can witness. How tri- 
 umphantly do the favoured sons of song scatter 
 the misty shades of vanity and the more palpable
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 217 
 
 array of earth-born passion ! Who, that ever 
 tasted the charm of such enviable moments, does 
 not turn away from the sparkling follies of the 
 substantial world to the memory of those holy 
 hours of rapture ? One energetic and harmonious 
 line — one well-conveyed emotion — a gentle, grace- 
 ful transit from one thought to another — can fill the 
 soul of the poet with innocent and natural delight, 
 leaving behind it a soft and placid gladsomeness, 
 which will be doubly grateful if it can be participat- 
 ed by some sympathising and sensible friend, who 
 can enter into its enthusiasm and forgive its excess. 
 It is indeed a guiltless and a spiritual joy, created 
 by an effort, which effort is in itself enjoyment : and 
 then it brings the prospect of the approbation, the 
 encouragement of the wise and good ! — But envy ! 
 envy ! the pitiful efforts of envy itself only make its 
 triumphs the more splendid — they dash and murmur 
 like the little waves against the firm foot of the 
 mountain, on which true merit raises itself in its own 
 majesty, for the glory of its country and of mankind. 
 The story of Psyche is one of the most attrac- 
 tive which has been handed down to us by classic 
 
 mythology. It originally conveyed a beautiful and 
 19
 
 218 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 impressive allegory, whose charm has been obscur- 
 ed and whose interest almost lost in the many 
 embellishments with which a series of poets have 
 crowded the simple tale j a tale in fact only in- 
 tended to describe the nuptials of the god of love 
 with Psyche, and the consequent birth of the 
 goddess of enjoyment : the obvious sense of which 
 is, that when the soul is filled with love, it enjoys 
 the highest possible portion of pleasure. From 
 this unadorned fable Apuleius drew a charming 
 story, more indeed like the fairy-tales of modern 
 days, than the i*-v6o t of the old Grecian age. On 
 this production of Apuleius, La Fontaine founded 
 his fascinating Psyche, adding numberless beau- 
 ties to his original, and delightfully mingling verse 
 and prose — the strikingly impressive with the play- 
 fully good-humoured. To the Psyche of France 
 we owe the Russian Dushenka ; but our poet, 
 though he never loses sight of his exemplar, goes 
 onwards in his own path of flowers, and gathers 
 many a one which the French poet overlooked. 
 or disregarded. La Fontaine has more of art — 
 Bogdanovich of nature ; — and the current of the 
 latter flows in consequence more refreshingly.
 
 CR1ITICAL NOTICES. 219 
 
 Besides, Dushenka is wholly in verse, and good 
 verse is certainly greatly better than good prose, 
 and rarer too. The most laborious efforts of art 
 are also the most valued ;* and thus it is that the 
 purest and most harmonious prose can never give 
 to a representation the energy or the interest which 
 it may derive from the power of verse, to which 
 indeed whatever is mysterious and supernatural 
 more especially belongs. This La Fontaine 
 constantly felt, and sought shelter for his highest 
 efforts and sweetest fancies in the regions of song. 
 How much better had he done, if he had made 
 his Psyche a continuous poem ! Bogdanovich's 
 Dushenka is so. Where exists the Russian who 
 has not read Dushenka ? 
 
 This production must not be weighed in the scales 
 of Aristotle. It is a display of the powers of a gay 
 and joyous imagination, directed by good taste. 
 It is sportive, excursive, ingenuous, faithful : — 
 Why must rules of art be intruded here ? 
 
 * This is a maxim of the French school, and a very unten- 
 able one. The characteristic of eminent genius is, that it pro- 
 duces the same and even greater effect without laborious 
 effort, which inferior merit requires intense application to ac- 
 complish.
 
 220 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 [Karamsin then goes on to compare the French 
 with the Russian fabulist, giving the most striking 
 passages from the Dushenka, and "strewing," as he 
 says, " the grave of the poet with his own flowers."] 
 
 Is it surprising that such a poem produced so great 
 an impression ? Six or seven sheets thrown un- 
 called for into the world, wholly changed the fate 
 of the author. Catherine was then reigning in 
 Russia. She saw, she admired the Dushenka — 
 sent for the poet, and inquired of him how she 
 could gratify him. — It was enough — who doubts 
 the taste of a sovereign ? Nobles and courtiers 
 learnt Dushenka by heart, each rivalling the rest 
 in the attentions showered upon the author. Epis- 
 tles, odes, and madrigals in his honour were scat- 
 tered profusely. He was mounted above the clouds. 
 — Alas ! that the destructive influence of such 
 distinctions should have overshadowed him in the 
 brightest epoch of his poetic talents. He was thirty 
 years old — he abandoned the muses — and the gar- 
 land woven for him by his Dushenka was the only 
 one that encircled his brow in his listless lethargy. 
 It is an imperishable wreath, no doubt, but the 
 friends of poetry mourn that it should have satisfi.-
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 221 
 
 ed him. Even the thirst for fame may be quenched. 
 Our poet afterwards wrote much, but against his 
 own will and against the will of his inspiring genius. 
 Perhaps he would set up no rival to his beloved 
 Dushenka. 
 
 From 1775 to 17S9 he published the following 
 works : Historical Description of Russia — an im- 
 perfect essay, which however is very well written ; 
 only the first volume appeared. A Comedy in 
 verse — The Joy of Dushenka ; — The Sclavonian 
 Woman, and two dramatised proverbs. Catherine 
 encouraged him to write for the stage, and sent 
 him brilliant presents on the production of these 
 pieces. The Sclavonian piece made a strong im- 
 pression. It represents the festivities with which 
 the old Sclavonians welcomed the return of 
 the twenty-fifth year of the reign of their " Great 
 Princes," and it was produced just at the period 
 when Catherine had swayed the Russian sceptre 
 for a quarter of a century. 
 
 At the request of the Empress he also published 
 
 a collection of Russian proverbs, and wrote some 
 
 small poems in the Sobescednik, The Companion, 
 
 a weekly periodical, which appeared at Petersburg 
 
 19*
 
 222 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 in 1788 and 9. Many of these graceful trifles are 
 full of wit and gaiety, and the song " I'm fourteen 
 summers old," Ssc. (p. 168) has become one of the 
 most popular national songs in Russia. He also 
 translated at this time the best eulogiums, such as 
 Voltaire's and Marmontel's, on the Empress, and 
 the compositions lost nothing of their effect in 
 being thus transferred to our language. 
 
 In the poet let us not forget the man. He was 
 made associate of the Archives at Petersburg in 
 1780, and in 1788 was elected president. In 1795 
 . he was dismissed from service, in which he had been 
 engaged forty-one years. The salary was continued 
 to him in the form of a pension. He left Peters- 
 burg the following year. The then unfortunate 
 state of Europe — those dreadful revolutions which 
 shook individuals as well as nations, added to many 
 personal sorrows, excited in his sensitive mind the 
 ardent longing after a peaceful solitude. A beautiful 
 climate — the sweet recollections of youth — the 
 bonds of early friendship and of brotherhood — in- 
 vited him to the fair fields of Little Russia. He 
 went to Sumii, intending to glide calmly and silent- 
 ly through the evening of life, in the circle of his
 
 CIHTfCAL NOTICES. 22*6 
 
 connexions, and reposing on the bosom of nature. 
 The first weeks and months he passed in those 
 retreats were ineffably happy. His spirits had 
 never been so free and so tranquil. No phantoms 
 disturbed his peace. A pure conscience, the re- 
 collections of fifty years passed in unbroken but 
 serene activity — a poetical but strong mind — an 
 active strength of fancy — an excellent library — 
 the friendliest union with good men and beloved 
 relatives — and the uniformity of an ingenuous and 
 happy life, a life which had been so full of allure- 
 ments — these were the sources of that happiness 
 which he here enjoyed — a real enviable happiness, 
 such as is sought by all, who amidst the world's 
 tumultuousness strive after their own fame, and 
 their fellow-creatures' well-being ; — that happiness 
 he had sighed after to decorate the peaceful though 
 sometimes gloomy days of eventide : — but " In 
 this world where shall peace be found ?" 
 
 And Bogdunovich did not enjoy it long : — an 
 unfortunate attachment drove him from the haven 
 where he deemed himself to be safely anchored from 
 all the stoims of life. He abandoned friends, rela- 
 tives, the silent abodes of peace and happiness, that
 
 224 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 he might fly from this ever-ruling passion. In the 
 years when the sun of life sinks rapidly towards its 
 setting, and the calm of nature seems to invite to 
 closer communion with what is left of earthly 
 pleasure, it is then the passions are most terrible. 
 — Youth is supported by hope — but age has no 
 such stay. It hears alone the strong voice of rea- 
 son, which will not approve of the useless murmurs 
 against destiny. Every heart that can feel will look 
 with sorrow on this period of our poet's existence. 
 
 In the year 1798 he again returned to Kursk, in 
 whose neighbourhood he had long been wandering. 
 Alexander mounted the Russian throne. And when 
 every eye of patriotism, bright with hope and joy, 
 was turned upon the young monarch, Bogdanovich 
 again seized his long neglected lyre, and received 
 from the emperor a ring as the token of his approval. 
 The poet of Dushenka had had the honour of 
 gratifying Catherine the Great ; should not her 
 illustrious grandson deign also to honour him ? 
 
 The health of Bogdanovich had been always 
 indifferent; in the beginning of December 1802, it 
 began visibly to decay, and on the 6th of January 
 1803, he died, mourned by his acquaintances and 
 friends, and by every friend of the literature of his
 
 CRITICAL NOTICfrb. 225 
 
 country ; for he had not yet attained those venera- 
 ble years when the last and only blessing which 
 heaven can confer on the son of mortality is to soothe 
 and brighten his passage to the realms of eternity. 
 
 It is said that the character of an author is best 
 painted in his works ; but it is surely safer to take 
 into account the opinions and observations of those 
 who knew him best. And here then we must listen, 
 to the unvarying voice of praise. All speak of his 
 meekness, his feeling heart, his unselfishness, and 
 that innocent gaiety which played around him to 
 the end of his days, and gave a peculiar charm to 
 his society. He had no pride of authorship. He 
 seldom spoke of literature or of poetry, and always 
 with an unaffected modesty, which seemed to have 
 been born with him. He loved not criticism, which 
 often destroys even the honestest self-complacency, 
 and he often confessed that its severity would have 
 driven him wholly away from the exercises of his 
 pen. 
 
 His memory will be cherished by his friends and 
 the friends of Russian genius ; and the sweet — the 
 ieeling — the acute — the joyous poet of Dushenka 
 will be honoured by the future age.
 
 226 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL ANB 
 
 KHEMN1TZER. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich Khemnitzer was born of Ger- 
 man parents at Petersburg, in the year 1744. His 
 father was of Saxon origin, and was attached as 
 physician to the country hospital of the Russian 
 capital. From parents of distinguished excellence 
 our poet received the elements of a careful educa- 
 tion. It was his father's wish that his son should 
 succeed him in his profession, but the unconquer- 
 able aversion of the latter to the study of anatomy 
 could never be subdued. He was enrolled in con- 
 sequence when thirteen years old in the regiment 
 of guards, as sub-officer, and made two campaigns 
 against the Prussians and the Turks. This, how- 
 ever, as he was wont to say, was " out of the rain 
 into the river" — from the theatre of anatomy to the 
 martyr-chamber of surgery. He became in con- 
 sequence an engineer in the Berg cadet corps, 
 having obtained the rank of lieutenant in the Rus-
 
 CRITICAL NOTCES. 227 
 
 rfian service. He won the love and the confidence 
 of all his superiors by his activity and uprightness. 
 In the year 177G he accompanied one of his su- 
 perior officers through Germany, Holland, and 
 France ; and after his return to his country applied 
 himself ardently to his literary labours. In 1778 
 he published the first volume of his fables ; and on 
 its reaching a second edition about three years 
 afterwards, he added to it another volume. One of 
 his particular friends and protectors quitting the 
 service at this period, he determined to do the 
 same. He had no means of living independently 
 of his salary, and being compelled to look round 
 him for another engagement, he soon obtained the 
 consul-generalship of Smirna. The emoluments 
 attached to this office led him to hope that in the 
 progress of a few years he should be enabled to 
 retire comfortably from active life, and this hop: 
 nduced him to accept an office, which banished 
 him from his country. That country he abandoned 
 with a heavy heart ; and on separating from his 
 friends, whom he loved with indescribable affec- 
 tion, he seemed to sink under the thought that he 
 was bidding them a final farewell. In the autumn
 
 228 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 of 1782 he reached Smirna ; indisposition greeted 
 him on his arrival. The climate was perhaps un- 
 friendly ; but his mind was more keenly affected 
 by his exile from that society in which he had so 
 long breathed and lived, and which had become a 
 necessary element of his existence. He struggled 
 long against his illness : — it subdued him in the 
 spring of 1784. 
 
 This is a short outline of the serene and unpre- 
 tending career of an excellent man and an admirable 
 poet, whose manners were as ingenuous and un- 
 pretending as his life. In many respects he may 
 be compared to La Fontaine, his pattern and fore- 
 runner. The same goodness of heart, the same 
 blind confidence in his friends, the same careless- 
 ness and inoffensiveness, and the same absence of 
 mind, which formed the prominent features of La 
 Fontaine's character, were developed with singular 
 fidelity in that of Khemnitzer. Of the last trait we 
 will give an example or two. When in Paris he 
 once went to see the representation of Tancred. 
 On Le Cain's appearance, he was so struck with 
 the noble and majestic presence of that renowned 
 actor, that he rose from his seat and bowed with
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES. 229 
 
 lowly reverence. An universal roar of laughter 
 brought him back to himself. One morning a 
 friend, for whom he had the highest regard, related 
 to him an interesting piece of news. Khenmitzer 
 dined with him afterwards, and as a piece of re- 
 markable intelligence narrated to his host that 
 which his host had bef>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<zv, The twelve sleeping Virgins.
 
 236 
 
 THE DEATH OF OSSIAN, 
 
 FROM THE DUTCH OF HELMERS* 
 
 There he sits forlorn and faded, 
 
 O'er his heart bending mournfully ; 
 
 The light that shone in his eye is shaded ; 
 
 Helpless, joyless, — yes, 'tis he, 
 
 The pride of story, the soul of gladness, 
 
 He bends o'er his harp, in tears of sadness, 
 
 On the foaming strand of the western sea. 
 
 There he is seated, lost and lonely, 
 
 See the soul-melting harper there ; 
 
 The rude wind scatters his silver hair; 
 
 The dry strings move to his wither'd hand, only 
 
 To show that he summons their spirit in vain : 
 
 Their spirit is fled — their songs are dead — 
 
 Alas ! no friends of his youth remain. 
 
 * See page 76.
 
 DEATH OF OSSIAN. 237 
 
 There he is seated, bathed in tears, 
 On the ruined stones of Malvina's grave: 
 Above him the ruthless storm he hears, 
 He hears the perilous hurricane rave ; 
 Like an oak to a waste removed, when torn 
 From its native sod, he droops forlorn. 
 
 Alas ! long years bow down that reverend head — 
 Thy fellow-heroes, friends and sons are gone ; 
 But thou shalt live in thy harp's sacred tone, 
 
 And still bt; cherished ! 
 
 In song's sweet influence, smile and shine forever, 
 In song's eternal stream of fire : 
 Still Morven's sons shall hang upon thy lyre, 
 Thou sacred bard of Lutha's river. 
 
 There sits he in thick darkness, minstrel old and 
 
 hoary 
 Upon Malvina's grave-stone perishing : 
 Ah! Oscar's noble branch! Ah ! Lutha's light and 
 
 glory, 
 Snapt is its stem, even like a rose of spring.
 
 238 DEATH OF OSSIAN. 
 
 In vain thou bidd'st thy heroes wake again, 
 In vain thou tell'st their names to the wild hurri- 
 cane—— 
 
 O thou abandoned Gssian ! 
 Thou art upon their grave, thou summonest them 
 
 in vain ; 
 They are gone for ever, ever : — see their forms 
 Shadowed in mists, amidst these clouds of storms. 
 
 Yes ! in the foggy vapours of the even, 
 Their visiony spirits walk the solemn heaven ; 
 Fathers and brothers, bards of godlike race, 
 Minstrels of old, the darksome welkin shrouds: 
 There Fingal sets upon his throne of clouds, 
 And Oscar there, to greet thy coming, stays. 
 
 And thou, Malvina ! thou, the pride of Selma's halls; 
 See from her temple of the storm she calls — 
 See her from her holy shrine descending down : 
 They fain would welcome thee, sweet bard ! on high 
 With them to glide along the clouded sky, 
 And in the palace of mists to keep thy throne.
 
 DEATH OF OSSIAN. 239 
 
 Thou, venerable bard, no longer linger ! 
 Rise from Malvina's tomb — so sad to thee ! 
 
 Rise up, thou Caledonian singer 
 
 List, CEdipus ! to thy Antigone ; 
 They shall bear thee to the hallowed seat, 
 Where the bright armed Fingal and Oscar meet, 
 And drive from thy bosom its misery. 
 
 He rises — see he rises — but ah ! Torlutha's walls 
 Are fallen all ruined in the dust, 
 Fingal's bright panoply is covered with thick rust, 
 And now in Selma's desolate halls 
 The intruding thistles grow : 
 There dwells the crafty fox, there sports the timid 
 doe. 
 
 He comes, he comes, of bards the king ! 
 Malvina's praise inspires his string ; 
 
 Full of sadness he looks around 
 
 But ah ! from the consecrated ground, 
 
 The brightness, the pomp, and the joy are fled : 
 
 He looks — in tears he hangs his head 
 
 Over the grave beloved — there all his joys are found.
 
 240 DEATH OF OSSIAN. 
 
 He sits him down by the crumbling bones, 
 On the grave's rough lichen-covered stones : 
 He grasps his harp in his withered hand :— - 
 His soul's eye sees, on the clouds above, 
 The mighty ghosts of his fathers move ; 
 They beckon him thither to take his stand. 
 The beautiful vision his spirit fills; 
 His bosom is glowing with holiest fires — 
 With Fingal's praise his old harp thrills, 
 And singing — the mighty bard expires. 
 
 It vibrates still through the poplar trees 
 That bow to the winds o'er his hallowed grave : 
 Theirs are unearthly harmonies, 
 Heard by the shepherd when they wave, 
 And he thinks of the bard of Selma's halls, 
 And a tear to Malvina's memory falls. 
 
 Erratum.— P. 208, note, for p. 235, read p. 234.
 
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