■ ■■^'V' ■ 
 
 A.
 
 >J0'>^ 
 
 m,^ ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 in-Y 
 
 jA;OFCAllF0% 
 
 O 
 to 
 
 3> 
 
 
 "v^FUNIVER^/^ ^lOSANCElfj"^ 
 
 <rji30Nvsoi^ '^/iaaAiNn-awv** 
 
 L1UHM11 I \// 
 
 ^\mmof 
 
 J0-IITV1 
 
 ^.!/ojnvojo^ 
 
 -CAIIFO/?^ 
 
 ''AHvaai^?'^^ 
 
 i^AINrtJVVV 
 
 'M
 
 )jo^ "^mim-i^^ 
 
 F0% .H:OFCAllfO/Xfc 
 
 
 < 
 
 
 "^^JiaoKv 
 
 %]Alf 
 
 ^lOSANCElfj^ 
 
 
 
 s i 
 
 ■; so 
 
 t 
 
 
 fiL. 
 
 "^/^aiMNH ^" 
 
 d| 
 
 KYOr 
 
 A^UIBRAP" 
 
 
 7^ 

 
 RHYMES 
 FROM THE RUSSIAN
 
 RHYMES 
 FROM THE RUSSIAN 
 
 BEING 
 
 FAITHFUL TRANSLATIONS OF SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE BEST 
 
 RUSSIAN POETS 
 
 PUSHKIN, LERMONTOF, NADSON, 
 
 NEKRASOF, COUNT A. TOLSTOI, TYOUTCHEF. 
 
 MAIKOF, LEBEDEF, FET, K. R., Etc. 
 
 BY 
 
 , JOHN POLLEN, LL.D., T.C.D. 
 
 INDIAN CIVIL SERVICE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO., LtV. 
 
 1891 
 
 N
 
 ( The rights of translation a7id of reproduction are resetved.')
 
 3^137 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MARQUESS OF DUFFERIN AND AVA, 
 
 TO WHOSE EXAMPLE AND KIND WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT 
 THE AUTHOR TRACES THE SOURCE OF HIS 
 
 RUSSIAN STUDIES, 
 
 THIS LITTLE EFFORT IS GRATEFULLY 
 DEDICATED. 
 
 867073
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The chief merit the Translator claims for this 
 little effort is " faithfulness of translation." He has 
 endeavoured to translate every word and every 
 thought of the Russian writer, and to avoid addi- 
 tions. 
 
 Most of the poems selected for translation are 
 popular, not only amongst the higher classes of 
 Russian society, but also with the Russian soldiery 
 and peasantry, who are very fond of poetry, and 
 amongst whom education has spread, and con- 
 tinues to spread, with marvellous rapidity. 
 
 The Translator trusts that this little volume may 
 not only prove interesting to ordinary English 
 readers wishing to get a general idea of Russian 
 poetry, but may also be found of some service 
 to Englishmen studying Russian, and Russians 
 studying English. 
 
 J. POLLEN. 
 
 Sebastopol, 
 
 March 21, 1 89 1.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 ' FROM VLADIMIR VLADISLAVLEF. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Rhymes AND Reason ... ... ... ... ... i 
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 
 
 The Angel ... ... ... ... ... 3 
 
 The Voyage .. ... ... ... ... ... 5 
 
 Prayer ... ... ... ... ... ... 6 
 
 Thanksgiving ... ... ... ... ... 7 
 
 On Death of Pushkin ... ... ... ... 8 
 
 Dream ... ... ... ... .. ... 9 
 
 Clouds ... ... ... ... ... ... 11 
 
 Prayer ... ... ... ... ... ... 12 
 
 How weary ! How dreary ! ... ... ... 14 
 
 Alone I pass along the lonely Road ... ... 15 
 
 Men and Waves ... ... ... ... 17 
 
 Ballad: The Queen of the Sea ... ... ... 18 
 
 The Prophet ... ... ... ... ... 21 
 
 When — Then ... ... ... ... ... 23 
 
 My Native Land ... ... ... .. 24
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To ... ... ... ... ... ... 26 
 
 The Dagger ... ... ... ... ... 27 
 
 No! NOT FOR THEE ... ... ... ... ... 29 
 
 Dispute ... ... ... ... ... 30 
 
 "Why" ... ... ... ... ... ... 35 
 
 Moscow ... ... ... ... ... ... 36 
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 
 
 i wander down the noisy streets ... ... •••37 
 
 Anacreontic ... ... ... ... ... 39 
 
 To HIS Wife ... ... ... ... ... 40 
 
 Let me not lose my Senses, God ... ... 41 
 
 I've overlived Aspirings ... ... ... •••43 
 
 Peter the Great ... ... ... .. 44 
 
 The Prophet ... ... ... ... ... 45 
 
 Play, my Kathleen ... ... ... ... 47 
 
 A Monument ... ... ... ... ... 48 
 
 The Poet ... ... ... ... ... 49 
 
 FROM NADSON. 
 
 PiTV THE stately Cy PRESS TrEES ... ... ... 5 1 
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. 
 
 Te Deum ... ... ... ... ... 52 
 
 The Prophet ... ... ... ... ... 54 
 
 Offer my Muse a Friendly Hand ... ... 55
 
 CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dream ... ... ... ... ... ... 56 
 
 A Sick Man's Jealousy ... ... ... ... 57 
 
 The Landlord of Old Times ... ... ... 59 
 
 The Russian Soldier ... ... ... ... 61 
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 
 
 A Midsummer Night's Dream ... ... ... 62 
 
 Who was He? ... ... ... ... ... 64 
 
 The Easter Kiss ... ... ... ... 66 
 
 On Lomonossof ... ... ... ... ... 67 
 
 Propriety ... ... ... ... ... 68 
 
 The Singer ... ... ... ... ... ... 69 
 
 A Little Picture ... ... ... ... 70 
 
 The Alpine Glacier ... ... ... ... 73 
 
 The Mother ... ... ... ... ... 74 
 
 The Kiss refused ... ... ... ... ... 77 
 
 The Snowdrop ... ... ... ... .. 78 
 
 A Smile and a Tear ... ... ... ... 79 
 
 FROM COUNT TOLSTOL 
 
 Believe it not ... ... ... ... ... 80 
 
 The Scolding ... ... ... ... ... 81 
 
 FROM VLADIMIR VLADISLAVLEF. 
 
 Reflection ... ... ... ... ... ... 82 
 
 The Would-be Nun ... ... ... ... 83 
 
 The Schoolboy's Devil ... ... ... ... 84
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 POPULAR SONG. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Gipsy Maid ... ... ... ... 87 
 
 FROM TYOUCHEF. 
 Scarce cooled from Midday Heat ... ... ... 89 
 
 The Spring Storm 
 
 FROM LEBEDEF. 
 Theodora 
 
 FROM H. 
 
 The Lie's Excuse 
 
 90 
 
 FROM PRINCE VYAZEMSKL 
 The Troika ... ... ... ... ... ... 91 
 
 93 
 
 95 
 
 FROM DERJAVIN. 
 
 The Stream of Time ... . ... ... ... 96 
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 
 Marriage ... ... ... ... ... 07 
 
 The Grain ... ... ... ... ... ... ^g 
 
 Wedding Gear ... ... ... ... ... gg
 
 CONTENTS. XI 11 
 
 FROM DOROSHKEVISH. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sebastopol ... ... ... ... ... ... lOI 
 
 FROM POLONSKI. 
 On Skobelef ... ... ... ... ... 102 
 
 FROM KRYLOF. 
 
 F.\BLE — The Swan, the Pike, the Crab ... ... 103 
 
 CHILD'.S SONG. 
 Little Birdie ... ... ... ... ... 105 
 
 FROM LAL. 
 Advice ... ... ... ... ... ... 107 
 
 THE TITULAR COUNCILLOR. 
 The Titulyarnyi Sovetnik ... ... ... 109 
 
 FROM K. P. 
 
 No! I CAN ne'er believe ... .. ... ... no 
 
 To the Poet Maikof ... ... ... ... 112 
 
 FROM SHENSHIN (FET.). 
 
 A Russian Scene ... ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 Tryst ... ... ... ... ... ... 114
 
 xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 FROM PLESHEEF. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Spring ... ... ... ... ... ... 115 
 
 Passion... ... ... ... ... ... 116 
 
 FROM E. KYLAEF, 
 Billows ... ,., ... ... ... ... 117 
 
 FROM COUNT T. 
 No Half-measures ,.. ... ... 118
 
 FROM THE RUSSIAN OF 
 VLADIMIR VLADISLAVLEF. 
 
 From my poor rhymes you turn your face, 
 
 From my allurements flee ; 
 So shuns the vane the wind's embrace, 
 
 And scorns his minstrelsy.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Thro' the midnight heavens an angel flew, 
 
 And a soft low song sang he, 
 And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds 
 
 Heard that holy melody. 
 
 He sang of the bliss of sinless souls 
 
 'Neath the tents of Eden-bowers ; 
 Of God — the Great One — he sang ; and unfeigned 
 
 Was his praise of the Godhead's powers. 
 
 A little babe in his arms he bore. 
 
 For this world of woe and tears, 
 And the sound of his song in the soul of the child 
 
 Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.
 
 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 And long languished she on this earth below, 
 
 With a wondrous longing filled, 
 But the world's harsh songs could not change for her 
 
 The notes which that angel trilled.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 Glitters a white, a lonely sail, 
 
 Where stoops the grey mist o'er the sea. 
 What does his distant search avail ? 
 
 At home, unfound, what leaveth he ? 
 
 Whistles the wind ; the waves at play 
 Sport round the bending, creaking mast ; 
 
 Ah ! not/^r Fortune does he stray, 
 Nor yet/;w« Fortune flees he fast, 
 
 'Neath him, like sapphire, gleams the sea ; 
 
 O'er him, like gold, the sunlight glows ; 
 But storms, rebelUous, wooeth he, 
 
 As if in storms he'd find repose.
 
 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 PRA YER. 
 
 In moments of life's trial, 
 When sorrows crowd the soul, , 
 
 A single prayer of wondrous power 
 From fervent lips I roll. 
 
 There dwells a force God-given 
 
 In harmony of sound ; 
 In living words there breathes a charm 
 
 All holy and profound. 
 
 From soul, like burden, leaping. 
 
 Far off all doubting flies ; 
 From prayers of faith with weeping 
 
 How light, how light we rise !
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 
 
 THA NKSGI VI NG. 
 
 For all, for all, I render thanks to Thee — 
 For passion's secret pangs and misery, 
 For burning tears, the poison of the kiss, 
 For warmth of soul wasted on emptiness. 
 For foeman's hate, for friends' malicious spleen, 
 For all by which in life I've cheated been. 
 But oh ! dispose it so, that from this day 
 I may not long have need such thanks to pay.
 
 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 ON DEATH OF PUSHKIN. 
 
 Silent the sounds of wondrous songs ; 
 
 Their latest notes have pealed ; 
 Narrow and dim his resting-place, 
 
 The singer's lips are sealed.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 
 
 DREAM* 
 
 'Neath midday heat, in Dagestana's Vale, 
 With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay ; 
 
 From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale, 
 And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away. 
 
 Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes ; 
 
 The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep ; 
 The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops, 
 
 And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep. 
 
 A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkHng bowers 
 An evening feast in my home — far away — 
 
 Where young and lovely women, crowned witli flowers, 
 Conversed of me in accents light and gay. 
 
 But, in their happy talk not joining, one 
 
 Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed ; 
 
 * This poem partakes of a prophecy. Lermontof was himself 
 killed in a duel on the slopes of the Caucasus.
 
 lo RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 And oh !— the mystery knows God alone — 
 
 This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed. 
 
 She saw in vision Dagestana's Vale, 
 
 Where on the slope a well-known body lay ; 
 
 From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale, 
 And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away.
 
 FROM LERM0N70F. n 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 (an experiment in RUSSIAN DACTYLS.) 
 
 Cloudlets ethereal wandering ceaselessly, 
 Floating in pearly chains over the azure deep ; 
 
 Maybe, as even I, suffering banishment,* 
 
 Leaving your own dear North, southward perforce you 
 sweep. 
 
 What is compelling you ? Destiny's ordinance ? 
 
 Envy invisible ? Open iniquity ? 
 Maybe deeds criminal heavily press on you ; 
 
 Maybe the slander of friendship's obliquity. 
 
 No ! you are simply aweary of fruitless fields ; 
 
 Strangers to passions and strangers to punishment. 
 Frigid eternally, free everlastingly, 
 
 You have no country, and cannot know banishment ! 
 
 * Lermontof was banished from St. Petersburg to the Caucasus.
 
 12 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 PR A YER. 
 (an experiment in RUSSIAN DACTYLS.) 
 
 Praying now earnestly, Mother of God, come I, 
 Bending before thy shrine radiant in brilliancy, 
 
 Not for salvation, or battle-eve benison, 
 Not with thanksgiving, or even repentancy. 
 
 Not for my own sad soul lost in the wilderness, 
 Soul of a pilgrim here wandering homelessly ; 
 
 But for a maiden pure, whom I would trust to thee, 
 Fervid Protectress from cold inhumanity ! 
 
 Circle with Fortune this maiden deserving it ; 
 
 Grant her considerate friends on life's pilgrimage. 
 Youth of bright buoyancy, age of reposefulness ; 
 
 Grant to her sinless soul Hope's happy peacefulness.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 13 
 
 Then — when the farewell hour finally draweth nigh, — 
 Whether in morn's hum, or silence of eventide, — 
 
 Send forth the best of thine angels to take to thy 
 Bosom of mercy her peerlessly perfect soul !
 
 14 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 HOW WEARY! HOW DREARY ! 
 
 How weary ! how dreary ! with no friend to ease the 
 heart's pain 
 In moments of sorrow of soul ! 
 Fond desires ! But what use the desire that is ever in 
 vain ? 
 And o'er us the best years roll. 
 
 To love. But the loved one ? 'Tis nothing to love for 
 a space ; 
 And for ever Love cannot remain. 
 Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the " has been " re- 
 mains not a trace, 
 And all gladness and sorrow are vain. 
 
 The passions ? Ah ! sooner or later, their malady sweet 
 
 Will vanish at reason's behest ; 
 And life — when the circle of cold contemplation's com- 
 plete — 
 
 Is a stupid and frivolous jest.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 15 
 
 Alone I pass along the lonely road, 
 
 Thro' gathering mist the pebbly pathway gleams ; 
 The night is still; — the void remembers God, 
 
 And star vibrates to star with speaking beams. 
 
 A wondrous glory moves across the sky ; 
 
 Soft sleeps the earth in dove-grey azure light. 
 Why aches my heart ? Why troubled thus am I ? 
 
 What wait I for, what grieve I for, this night ? 
 
 No more from life can I expect to gain, 
 
 And for the " has been" it were vain to weep ; 
 
 I simply seek repose, release from pain, 
 And fain would rest, forgetting all, in sleep. 
 
 But not the sleep which the cold tomb implies ; 
 
 But rather would I rest for ages so 
 That in my breast the strength of life might rise 
 
 In gentle wavelets, heaving to and fro.
 
 i6 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 The while that in my ears by night and day, 
 A sweet voice sang of ceaseless love to me ; 
 
 And o'er me leaned, greening in every spray 
 And faintly whispering, my dark cedar * tree. 
 
 * Lit., "oak."
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 17 
 
 * * 
 * 
 
 One wave upon another leaps, 
 And splashes, murmuring loud ; 
 
 So men on men, in rolling heaps. 
 Press on — a worthless crowd. 
 
 The waves prefer their cold free-will 
 To warmth the noonday gave ; 
 
 Souls men desire to have, yet still 
 They're colder than the wave.
 
 1 8 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE SEA. 
 
 The young Prince is swimming his steed in the sea ; 
 He heareth a voice : " Oh, Prince, look upon me ! " 
 
 Loud snorteth the steed as he pricks up his ears ; 
 He splashes the foam as he plunges and rears. 
 
 Again hears the Prince : " A king's daughter I be ; 
 Art thou willing to pass the whole evening with me ? 
 
 Behold, from the water a white hand extends, 
 And catches the reins by their silk tassel-ends. 
 
 To the white hand a young face there quickly succeeds ; 
 In her locks are entangled the twisted seaweeds. 
 
 Her blue eyes are gleaming with love's wild delight ; 
 On her bosom the foam-drops like pearls sparkle bright.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 19 
 
 Then thinketh the Prince, " You must stay, lady fair ; " 
 And adroitly he windeth his hand in her hair. 
 
 He has caught her. The hand of the warrior's strong ; 
 She weeps and she prays as they struggle along. 
 
 The Prince to the shore swimmeth on in his pride ; 
 He lands, and loud calls he his friends to his side. 
 
 " Ho ! come, my brave comrades, and look at my prey. 
 Behold how she struggles ! She'll ne'er get away. 
 
 " Why stand ye a terrified group on the shore ? 
 Ye have ne'er seen a beauty like this one before." 
 
 Back glanceth the Prince, with delight, on his prize \ 
 But the proud look of triumph soon fades from his eyes. 
 
 With a shudder he sees on the golden sand trail 
 A fearsome sea-monster, with hideous green tail — 
 
 A tail covered over with scales like a snake. 
 Its quivering coils in death-agony shake.
 
 20 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 The foam from her forehead is pouring in streams, 
 And the darkness of death from her closing eye gleams : 
 
 Her pale hands are clutching the sands of the sea, 
 And of purport unknown a reproach whispers she. 
 
 Afar rides the Prince — deep in thought rideth he ; 
 For long years he'll remember " the Queen of the Sea."
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 21 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Since the Eternal Judge to me 
 The Prophets' power of vision lent, 
 
 In human eyes I read, and see 
 Pages of vice and folly blent. 
 
 To preach of love when I began, 
 Teaching of truth and purity, 
 
 My neighbours all, like devils, ran 
 And took up stones to throw at me. 
 
 Upon my head I ashes cast. 
 
 And from the towns, a beggar, fled ; 
 And now I dwell in deserts vast, 
 
 Just like the birds^ by God's hand fed. 
 
 Keeping the laws of Providence, 
 The brute creation serveth me ; 
 
 The stars hear me with confidence. 
 With bright rays playing joyously.
 
 22 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 When through the noisy city's way 
 I hurry onwards, in distraction, 
 
 The old men to the children say, 
 With smile of selfish satisfaction — 
 
 " Behold, from him a warning take ! 
 
 He was too proud with us to dwell ; 
 The fool ! That God through his lips spake- 
 
 This was the tale he strove to tell. 
 
 " Look, children ! on him cast your eyes ! 
 
 How sad he is ! how thin and pallid ! 
 
 How naked, and how poor and squalid ! 
 How all the wretched man despise ! "
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 23 
 
 WHEN— THEN. 
 
 When waves of shadow fret the yellowing fields ; 
 
 When freshly hum the woods to Zephyr's play ; 
 When on the garden walls the reddening plums, 
 
 Hiding themselves, in leafy ambush sway j 
 
 When freshly washed in heavy-scented dews 
 (While evening red or golden morning glows), 
 
 From 'neath the hedge to me, with welcoming bows, 
 Her silver head the waving lily shows ; 
 
 When sports the snow-cold runlet down the dale, 
 Plunging my restless thoughts in pensive dreams, 
 
 Whispering to me some deep mysterious tale 
 
 Of that reposeful source from whence it streams ■— 
 
 Then in my soul calm peace succeeds alarm, 
 Upon my brow dissolves the furrowed frown ; 
 
 On earth I catch of happiness the charm ; 
 
 From heaven I see the Godhead looking down.
 
 24 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 I LOVE my land, but with a love so strange 
 That reason over it no victory knows. 
 
 Her glory, bought in bloodshed's stern exchange^ 
 Her ever-confident and proud repose. 
 
 The sacred annals of her ancient might, 
 
 Arouse in me no fancies of delight. 
 
 Nay ! but I love (the why I cannot say) 
 
 Her cold steppes in their silent majesty, 
 Her waving woodlands in their boundless play. 
 
 Her flooded rivers spreading like the sea. 
 I love to drive adown her country lanes. 
 With longing glance piercing the shades of night, 
 Sighing for rest, to catch thro' distant panes 
 
 The glimmering of some mournful village light. 
 I love to see the smoke of smouldering stalk ; 
 
 To watch the waggons o'er the wide waste wend ;
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 2$ 
 
 Or, on hillside, 'mid yellowing fields, to mark 
 
 The pair of birch trees their white arms extend. 
 With a delight, unknown except to few, 
 
 Love I to note the well-filled threshing-floor. 
 The peasant's hut, half hidden in the straw, 
 
 The shutters with quaint carvings covered o'er ; 
 And with no less delight, on holiday. 
 
 From dewy eve till noon of night, to gaze 
 Upon the dance, with stamp and whistling gay, 
 
 Amid the roar the merry rustics raise.
 
 26 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 TO 
 
 We stand apart, yet still thy pictured face 
 I fondly press to this sad heart of mine — 
 
 A vision pale, of happiest years a trace, 
 My soul rejoices in this gift of thine. 
 
 For, though to passions new I'm now resigned, 
 That once-loved face I cannot cease to love ; 
 
 The shrine forsaken still retains the shrined ; 
 O'erthrown the image, yet God reigns above.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 27 
 
 THE DAGGER. 
 
 Well do I love thee, my dagger of steel, 
 
 My comrade so bright and so cold ! 
 Thou wast forged in hate by a Georgian fell, 
 
 For the fierce fight edged by Circassian bold. 
 
 Thee to me as a gift did a lily hand bear 
 
 In the moment of sad farewell ; 
 For that once no blood, but a glittering tear, 
 
 A pearl of passion, adown thee fell. 
 
 Fixed upon mine, her dark black eyes 
 
 Full of mysterious sorrow seemed ; 
 As plays thy blade when flickering flames arise. 
 
 Darkling they gloomed, and then they brightly gleamed.
 
 28 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 Dumb pledge of love to cheer my cheerless way, 
 To wanderer lone a useful guide, 
 
 My strength of soul I never shall betray, 
 But true like thee, true steel, will I abide !
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 29 
 
 * * 
 
 No ! not for thee flames thus my love's hot blast ; 
 
 Thy brilliant beauty is not thine for me. 
 In thee I love a passion of the past ; 
 
 My long-lost youth I live again in thee. 
 
 For when at times entranced I gaze upon thee, 
 Fixing on thy bright eyes a yearning glance, 
 
 To thee my heart is silent, while beyond thee 
 With her I hold mysterious utterance. 
 
 I speak with her, my friend of earlier blisses ; 
 
 In your soft Hnes another's form I trace. 
 On living lips I press long-silent kisses ; 
 
 In your sweet eyes I see a vanished face.
 
 30 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 DISPUTE* 
 
 OncEj before a tribal meeting 
 
 Of the mountain throng, 
 Kazbek-hill with Shat-the-mountain f 
 
 Wrangled loud and long. 
 ** Have a care, Kazbek, my brother," 
 
 Shat, the grey-haired, spoke ; 
 " Not for naught hath human cunning 
 
 Bent thee to the yoke. 
 Man will build his smoky cabins 
 
 On thy hillside steep ; 
 Up thy valley's deep recesses 
 
 Ringing axe will creep ; 
 Iron pick will tear a pathway 
 
 To thy stony heart, 
 
 * This piece is famous for the description it contains of Russia's 
 progress eastward. 
 
 t Two mountains in the Caucasian range subdued by Russia with 
 the rest of the Caucasus.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 31 
 
 Delving yellow gold and copper 
 
 For the human mart. 
 Caravans, e'en now, are wending 
 
 O'er thy stately heights, 
 Where the mists and kingly eagles 
 
 Wheeled alone their flights. 
 Men are crafty ; what though trying 
 
 Proved the first ascent, 
 Many-peopled, mark, and mighty 
 
 Is the Orient." 
 
 " Nay, I do not dread the Orient," 
 
 Kazbek, answering, jeers ; 
 " There mankind has spent in slumber 
 
 Just nine hundred years. 
 Look, where 'neath the shade of plane trees 
 
 Sleepy Georgians gape. 
 Spilling o'er their broidered clothing 
 
 Foam of luscious grape ! 
 See, 'mid wreaths of pipe-smoke, lying 
 
 On his flowered divan. 
 By the sparkling pearly fountain 
 
 Dozeth Teheran !
 
 32 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 " Lo ! around Jerusalem's city, 
 Burned by God's command, 
 
 Motionless, in voiceless stillness, 
 Death-like, lies the land. 
 
 " Farther off, to shade a stranger, 
 
 Yellow Nilus laves. 
 Glowing in the glare of noonday, 
 
 Steps of royal graves. 
 Bedouins forget their sorties 
 
 For brocaded tents, 
 While they count the stars and sing of 
 
 Ancestral events. 
 All that there the vision greeteth 
 
 Sleeps in prized repose ; 
 No ! the East will ne'er subdue me ; 
 
 Feeble are such foes ! " 
 
 " Do not boast thyself so early," 
 
 Answered ancient Shat ; 
 " In the North, look ! 'mid the vapours, 
 
 Something rises ! What ? " 
 
 Secretly the mighty Kazbek 
 At this warning shook,
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 33 
 
 And, in trouble, towards the nor'ward 
 
 Cast a hurried look. 
 As he looks, in perturbation. 
 
 Filled with anxious care. 
 He beholds a strange commotion. 
 
 Hears a tumult there. 
 Lo ! from Ural to the Danube, 
 
 To the mighty stream, 
 Tossing, sparkling in the sunlight, 
 
 Moving regiments gleam ; 
 Glancing wave the white-plumed helmets 
 
 Like the prairie grass. 
 While, 'mid clouds of dust careering. 
 
 Flashing Uhlans pass. 
 Crowded close in serried phalanx 
 
 War battalions come ; 
 In the van they bear the standards. 
 
 Thunders loud the drum ; 
 Streaming forth like molten copper 
 
 Batteries, rumbling, bound ; 
 Smoking just before the battle 
 
 Torches flare around ; 
 Skilled in toils of stormy warfare, 
 
 Heading the advance, 
 
 D
 
 34 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 See ! a grey-haired general guides them, 
 
 Threat'ning is his glance. 
 Onwards move the mighty regiments 
 
 With a torrent's roar ; 
 Terrible, like gathering storm-clouds, 
 
 East, due east, they pour. 
 
 Then, oppressed with dire forebodings. 
 
 Filled with gloomy dreams, 
 Strove Kazbek to count the foemen, 
 
 Failed to count their streams. 
 Glancing on his tribal mountains, 
 
 Sadly gloomed the hill ; 
 Drew across his brows his mistcap, 
 
 And for aye was still.
 
 FROM LERMONTOF. 35 
 
 " WHYr 
 
 I'm sad, for, loving thee, I know full well 
 That this world's talk, with its calumnious spell. 
 Will never spare thy fresh youth's opening flower. 
 For every happy day and sunny hour, 
 Fate will exact in grief and tears his pay. 
 I'm sad because I see my loved one gay !
 
 36 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 MO SCO W. 
 
 Moscow, I love thee with a filial love, 
 
 Strong, burning, tender, which a Russian knows ! 
 
 I love the holy gleam thy brows above, 
 
 Thy battled Kremlin in its calm repose. 
 
 In vain the foreign Potentate * essayed. 
 
 Great Russian giant of a thousand years, 
 
 To cope with thee, and, by deceit betrayed, 
 
 To make thee bow thy soul to craven fears. 
 
 In vain the Stranger spurred ; you reared ; he fell ! 
 
 The world grew silent 'neath his mighty spell ; 
 
 Whilst thou alone didst live, my stately one, 
 
 Thou heir to glories ours, and ours alone ! 
 
 Thou livest still, and every stone of thine 
 
 Doth tell of generations tales divine. 
 
 * Napoleon,
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 37 
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 
 
 * * 
 
 I 
 
 I WANDER down the noisy streets, 
 
 I enter crowded fanes, 
 I join in youthful revelries, 
 
 I give my fancy reins. 
 
 I say, " The years are flying fast, 
 And seen we scarce are here, 
 
 Before we reach eternal tombs ; 
 For each the hour is near." 
 
 I glance upon the lonely oak, 
 
 The patriarch of the wood. 
 And think, " He'll live through tny brief day. 
 
 He through my father's stood."
 
 38 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 I fondly kiss the little child, 
 
 And, kissing, think, " Good-bye ! 
 
 I'm giving up my place to you. 
 You bloom ; 'tis mine to die." 
 
 Thus every day, thus every hour, 
 I'm wont with thought to spend. 
 
 And strive to guess the birthday-date 
 Of my approaching end. 
 
 Ah ! where will Fate send Death to me ? 
 
 Abroad ? in war ? on deep ? 
 Or will a neighbouring valley hold 
 
 My cold dust in its keep ? 
 
 Yet, though I know my lifeless form 
 
 Must rot where'er I die, 
 I'd fondly wish near my loved home, 
 
 In my own land, to lie. 
 
 There, round the entrance to the grave. 
 
 Let young life freely play. 
 And careless Nature calmly smile 
 
 With ageless beauty gay !
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 39 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 We know the steed of mettle 
 
 By the breed-marks branded on it ; 
 We know the haughty Highlander 
 
 By his plumed and towering bonnet ; 
 And I know the happy lovers 
 
 By the love -light in their eyes, 
 Where, its tale of joyance telling, 
 
 The languid flame doth rise.
 
 40 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 {TO HIS WIFE.) 
 
 No ! not for me the wild tumultuous gladness, 
 
 The rapturous rush, the transports, and the madness^ 
 
 The moans, the cries, the young Bacchante makes. 
 
 When, clinging close in coilings like a snake's, 
 
 With wounding kiss, and gush of hot caresses. 
 
 For the last moments' thrills she quiveringly presses. 
 
 Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me, 
 
 And happy I — distracted more by thee — 
 
 When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace, 
 
 You press me softly in your meek embrace ; 
 
 Modestly cold, to love with passion fraught 
 
 You scarce respond j you conscience seem of naught ; 
 
 Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last, 
 
 As 'twere against your will, you share my blast.
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 41 
 
 * * 
 * 
 
 Let me not lose my senses, God ; 
 Better the pilgrim's scrip and rod, 
 
 Or toil and hunger sad. 
 Not that I prize this mind of mine, 
 Or that my reason to resign 
 
 I should not be right glad, 
 If only then they'd set me free. 
 At large ! How sportively I'd flee 
 
 To where the dark wood gleams 
 I'd sing in raving ecstasies, 
 Forgetting self in fantasies 
 
 Of changeful wondrous dreams. 
 To the wild waves I'd lend an ear, 
 And glancing upward, full of cheer. 
 
 Would scan the open sky ; 
 And strong and free I'd rush amain, 
 A whirlwind sweeping o'er the plain. 
 
 Crashing through woods I'd fly.
 
 42 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 But there's the rub ! You lose your sense- 
 Are dreaded Hke a pestilence, 
 
 And clapped in prison drear. 
 They chain you to the idiot's yoke, 
 And, through the cage-bars, to provoke 
 
 The wild beast they draw near. 
 No more the nightingale to hear 
 At midnight singing sweet and clear, 
 
 Nor greenwood's rustling strains. 
 But only brother-madmen's cries, 
 The nightly keeper's blasphemies, 
 
 And shrieks, and clang of chains.
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 43 
 
 * * 
 * 
 
 I've overlived aspirings, 
 
 My fancies I disdain ; \^ 
 
 The fruits of hoUow-heartedness, 
 
 Sufferings alone remain. 
 
 'Neath cruel storms of Fate, 
 
 Withers my crown of bay, ^ 
 
 A sad and lonely life I lead. 
 
 Waiting my latest day. 
 
 Thus, struck by latter cold. 
 While howls the wintry wind. 
 
 Trembles upon the naked bough 
 The last leaf left behind. 
 
 !^
 
 44 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 PETER THE GREAT. 
 
 With autocratic hand 
 
 He boldly sowed the light ; 
 He did not scorn his native land — 
 
 He knew her destined might. 
 A carpenter, a seaman, 
 
 A scholar, hero, he, 
 With mighty genius on the throne, 
 
 A labourer was incessantly.
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 45 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 By spiritual thirst opprest, 
 
 I hied me to the desert dim, 
 
 When lo ! upon my path appeared 
 
 The holy six-winged seraphim. 
 
 My brow his fingers lightly pressed, 
 
 Soothing my eyelids into rest : 
 
 Open my inward vision flies, 
 
 As ope a startled eaglet's eyes. 
 
 He touched my ears, and they were filled 
 
 With sounds that all my being thrilled. 
 
 I felt a trembling fill the skies, 
 
 I heard the sweep of angels' wings, 
 
 Beneath the sea saw creeping things, 
 
 And in the valleys vines arise. 
 
 Over my lips awhile he hung. 
 
 And tore from me my sinful tongue — 
 
 The babbling tongue of vanity. 
 
 The sting of serpent's subtlety
 
 46 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 Within my lips, as chilled I stood, 
 
 He placed, with right hand red with blood. 
 
 Then with a sword my bosom cut. 
 
 And forth my quivering heart he drew ; 
 
 A glowing coal of fire he put 
 
 Within my breast laid bare to view. 
 
 As corpse-Hke on the waste I lay. 
 
 Thus unto me God's voice did say — 
 
 " Prophet, arise ! confess My Name ; 
 
 Fulfil My will ; submit to Me ! 
 
 Arise ! go forth o'er land and sea. 
 
 And with high words men's hearts inflame ! ''
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 47 
 
 ♦ * 
 * 
 
 Play, my Kathleen ; 
 
 No sorrow know. 
 The Graces flowers 
 
 Around thee throw. 
 Thy Httle cot 
 
 They softly swing, 
 And bright for thee 
 
 Dawns life's fresh spring. 
 For all delights 
 
 Thou hast been bom ; 
 Catch, catch wild joys, 
 
 In life's young morn ! 
 Thy tender years 
 
 To love devote ; 
 While hums the world, 
 
 Love my pipe's note.
 
 48 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 A MONUMENT* 
 
 I've raised myself no statue made with hands ; 
 The People's path to it no weeds will hide. 
 Rising with no submissive head, it stands 
 Above the pillar of Napoleon's pride. 
 No ! I shall never die ; in sacred strains 
 My soul survives my dust, and flies decay — 
 And famous shall I be, while there remains 
 A single Poet 'neath the light of day. 
 Through all great Russia will go forth my fame, 
 And every tongue in it will name my name ; 
 And by the nation long shall I be loved. 
 Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved ; 
 Because I strove to serve them with my song, 
 And called forth mercy for the fallen throng. 
 Hear God's command, O Muse, obediently. 
 Nor dread reproach, nor claim the Poet's bay ; 
 To praise and blame alike indifferent be. 
 And let fools say their say ! 
 
 * Like our Shakespeare, Pushkin knew his own merits.
 
 FROM PUSHKIN. 49 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Until Apollo calls the Bard 
 
 To share the holy sacrifice, 
 Plunged in the petty cares of life 
 
 The Poet's spirit lies. 
 
 Silent and still his sacred lyre, 
 
 His soul to sleep a prey, 
 Amongst earth's worthless sons he seems 
 
 More worthless, p'raps, than they. 
 
 But once the sacred summons rings 
 
 And strikes his eager ears, 
 The Poet's soul, like eagle roused, 
 
 On upward pinion steers. 
 
 Then earthly pleasures cease to charm ; 
 
 He scorns the babbling crowd ; 
 No more beneath their Idol's feet 
 
 His haughty head is bowed.
 
 50 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 He flies — and wild and stern his moods, 
 His notes, now grave, now gay — 
 To shores where lonely billows play, 
 
 To depths of whispering woods.
 
 FROM NADSON. 51 
 
 FROM NADSON. 
 
 * * 
 * 
 
 PiTV the stately cypress trees ; 
 
 How freshly green they spring ! 
 Ah ! why amidst their branches, child, 
 
 Have you put up your swing ? 
 Break not a single fragrant bough. 
 
 Oh, take thy swing away 
 To heights where thick acacias bloom ; 
 
 Mid dusty olives play ! 
 Thence you can see the Ocean, 
 
 And, as your swing ascends, ' 
 Through greening boughs a sunny glimpse 
 
 The sea in laughter sends 
 Of white sails in the distance dim, 
 
 Of white gulls far away. 
 Of white flakes foaming on the sands, 
 
 A fringe of snowy spray.
 
 52 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. 
 
 TE DRUM. 
 
 In our village there's cold and there's hunger ; 
 
 Through the mist the sad morn rises chill ; 
 Tolls the bell — the parishioners calling 
 
 From afar to the church on the hill ; 
 Austere and severe and commanding 
 
 Pealed that dull tone thro' the air. 
 I spent in the church that wet morning ; 
 
 I can never forget the scene there. 
 For there knelt the village hamlet, 
 
 Young and old in a weeping crowd ; 
 To be saved from the grievous famine 
 
 The people prayed aloud. 
 Such woe I had seldom witnessed, 
 
 Such agony of prayer, 
 And unconsciously I murmured, 
 
 " O God, the people spare ! "
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. S3 
 
 " Spare their friends, too, in Thy mercy ! 
 
 Oh, hear our heartfelt cry ! 
 For those who strove to free the serf 
 
 We lift the prayer on high ; 
 For those who bore the battle's brunt 
 
 And lived to win the day, 
 For those who've heard the serfs last song, 
 
 To Thee, O God, we pray."
 
 54 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 Ah ! tell me not he prudence quite forgot ; 
 
 That he himself for his own fate's to blame. 
 Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot 
 
 Both serve the good and save himself from flame. 
 
 But men he loved with higher, broader glow ; 
 
 His soul for worldly honours did not sigh ; 
 For self alone he could not live below. 
 
 But for the sake of others he could die. 
 
 Thus thought he — and to die, for him, was gain. 
 
 He will not say that " life to him was dear; " 
 He will not say that " death was useless pain ;" 
 
 To him, long since, his destiny was clear.
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. 55 
 
 Offer my Muse a friendly hand, 
 For I can sing no other song. 
 ^Vho feels no woe, nor flames at wron 
 
 Loves not his Fatherland. 
 
 CT.
 
 56 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 DREAM. 
 
 I DREAMT that, Standing on a height, 
 I wished to plunge me in the sea, 
 
 When, lo ! a spirit of peace and hght, 
 This wondrous song sang unto me : 
 ' Await the spring ! I'll soon be here ; 
 I'll say, ' Again let manhood rise ! ' 
 
 The mist from clouded brows I'll clear, 
 And dreary dreams from heavy eyes. 
 
 Back to your Muse her voice I'll give, 
 And once again you'll find the days 
 
 All blessed— as you bind the sheaf- 
 Reaping your unmown upland ways."
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. 57 
 
 A SICK MAN'S JEALOUSY. 
 
 A HEAVY cross, the lot Fate laid upon her — 
 
 "Suffer ! be silent ! weep not ! feign the smile ! " 
 
 And he, to whom her love, her youth, her will. 
 
 Her all, she'd given, her torturer proved the while. 
 
 For years no greeting with a friend knew she ; 
 
 Subdued, in sadness, and in trembling fear, 
 Bitter, unreasoning, sarcastic jeers. 
 
 Without a murmur, 'twas her lot to hear. 
 
 " Hush ! tell me not you've lost your youth for me — 
 That you're distracted by my jealousy ; 
 
 Nay, tell me not ! My grave is close at hand. 
 While you are fresher than spring's blossoms be. 
 
 " That day, the day when you at first loved me, 
 And heard from me, * I love,' in whispered breath, 
 
 Curse not that day ! The grave is near for me ! 
 I will right all, redeem all, by my death.
 
 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 " Cease ! Tell me not the days for you are sad ; 
 
 This invalid a jailor cease to name. 
 For me remains the cold gloom of the grave ; 
 
 For thee the embraces of another flame. 
 
 " Full well I know thou dost another love. 
 
 To spare, to wait, this seemed a tedious plan. 
 Oh, wait awhile ! my grave is very near ! 
 
 Let Fate end that which Fate in me began ! " 
 
 Such cruel, torturing, insulting words — 
 Lovely, yet pale as chiselled marble — she 
 
 In silence heard, and only wrung her hands. 
 What could she answer to such jealousy ?
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. 59 
 
 THE LANDLORD OF OLD TIMES, 
 {Loq7iittir.) 
 Before the Emancipation of the Serfs. 
 
 To whom I like I mercy show, 
 
 And whom I like I kill ; 
 My fist — my only constable, 
 
 My only law — my will. 
 A blow from which the sparkle flits, 
 A blow that knocks the teeth to bits, 
 
 A blow that breaks the jaw.! 
 
 After the Emancipation of the Serfs. 
 
 The mighty chain is snapped in twain, 
 Is snapped and bounds asunder. 
 
 The landlords clutch one broken end ; 
 At t'other peasants blunder.
 
 6o RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 The fields remain unploughed and bare ; 
 
 The seed is left unsown ; 
 No trace of order anywhere, 
 
 O mother-land, our own ! 
 Not for ourselves thus sorrow we ; 
 We grieve, O native land, for thee ! 
 
 Oh, true-believing peasantry ! 
 
 Russia's your mother small ; 
 The Tsar's your little father. 
 
 And that for you is all !
 
 FROM NEKRASOF. 6r 
 
 THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 Then up there comes a veteran, 
 
 With medals on his breast ; 
 He scarcely lives, but yet he strives 
 
 To drink with all the rest. 
 " A lucky man, am I," he cries, 
 And thus to prove the fact he tries. 
 " In what consists a soldier's luck ? 
 
 Pray, listen while I tell. 
 In twenty fights, or more, I've been. 
 
 And yet I never fell. 
 And, what is more, in peaceful times 
 
 Full meal I never knew ; 
 Yet, all the same, I have contrived 
 
 Not to give Death his due. 
 Again, for sins both great and small, 
 
 Full many a time they've me 
 With sticks unmercifully flogged, 
 
 Yet I'm alive, you see ! "
 
 62 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM. 
 
 For a long time last night I for sleep vainly yearned. 
 
 I arose, my room window wide throwing ; 
 The night with its silence oppressed me, and burned, 
 
 O'er me odours intoxicant blowing. 
 
 Of a sudden the hedge 'neath my window-sill shook ; 
 
 My curtain blew back with a shimmer ; 
 And in floated a youth with a beaming look, 
 
 Just as if from the moonlight a glimmer. 
 
 Gliding up to my couch, came my wonderful guest, 
 Whispered he, as a smile his lips parted, 
 
 " Why from me, with your cheek 'neath the pillow prest, 
 Like a startled wee fish, have you darted ?
 
 FROM MAIKOF. (>i 
 
 " Look up ! I'm a god — god of visions and dreams, 
 
 Secret friend of the innocent maiden ; 
 And for thee, my own queen, for the first time, I ween, 
 
 With a bUss from on high come I laden ! " 
 
 He spoke — and his hands my face lovingly seek ; 
 
 From its nook he it tenderly presses ; 
 Then a burning kiss fell on the curve of my cheek, 
 
 And his Hps sought my lips in caresses. 
 
 Neath the breath of his mouth my strength seemed to 
 have flown. 
 From my breast unclaspt arms I extended. 
 And there breathed in my ears, " You're my own ! 
 you're my own ! " 
 Distant notes, with harp's melody blended ! 
 
 Swiftly glided the hours ; when I opened my eyes, 
 Rosy dawn through my chamber was streaming ; 
 
 Alone, locks dishevelled, I trembling arise. 
 And I know not the drift of my dreaming.
 
 64 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 WHO WAS HEf 
 
 A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT, 
 
 Upon the mighty Neva's bank, 
 Along the winding woodland way, 
 
 A Horseman rode, in forest wilds 
 Of elm, of pine, of mosses grey. 
 
 Before him rose a Fisher's hut ; 
 
 Beneath a pine, by the blue stream, 
 An aged, bearded Fisherman 
 
 Was mending his boat's broken beam. 
 
 The Horseman said, " Grandsire ! Good-day ! 
 
 God help thee, friend ! how liveth thou ? 
 Doth thou catch much ? and tell me, pray, 
 
 Where doth thou sell thy takings now ? "
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 65 
 
 The old man answered sullenly, 
 
 " Are fishes in the river few ? 
 And other market have I none, 
 
 Except the town, there, close to you. 
 
 " And how am I to fish to-day ? 
 
 What kind of turmoil's here, you see ! 
 You fight ; and, in the fight, a shell 
 
 Has smashed my fishing-boat for me ! " 
 
 The Horseman bounded from his horse, 
 Without a word the tools he grasped ; 
 
 And in a twinkling planked the boat, 
 The rudder in the stern set fast. 
 
 " See, now, old friend, thy boat's all right ! 
 
 Out on the water boldly set ; 
 And, in the name of Peter's luck, 
 
 Cast forth into the deep thy net." 
 
 He vanished. Mused the stern old man : 
 " I wonder who the de'il was he ! 
 
 In every inch he looked a king, 
 But plied the hatchet splendidly."
 
 66 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE EASTER KISS.* 
 
 Soon " the Sun-bright Feast-day " cometh, 
 
 I will claim my Easter kiss. 
 Others, then, will stand around us ; 
 
 Pray, my Dora, mark you this ! 
 
 Just as if I never kissed you, 
 
 Blushing red before the rest, 
 You must kiss, with downcast eyelids ; 
 
 / will kiss, with smile represt. 
 
 * It is the custom in Russia for all friends meeting on Easter 
 morning (known as " Sun-bright ^Feast-day ") to exchange kisses 
 three times in the name of the Trinity.
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 67 
 
 ON LOMONOSSOEF* 
 
 God chose him from his earHest years ; 
 Revealed, 'mid ghttering icebergs stood, 
 In northern light, in gleam of stars. 
 In roar of wave, in hum of wood, 
 And bade him leave his Fisher's net, 
 And led him forth from town to town, 
 That " Rus " t to him from gloomy cot 
 To sparkling palace, might be known ; 
 And led him to famed Western climes. 
 That there his genius might obtain 
 All knowledge, from the earliest times 
 Made known to mighty chosen men ; 
 That, from their torch of knowledge, he 
 Might light his own, and, with right hand 
 Uplifted high that all might see, 
 Illume with it his native land. 
 
 * Lomonossoef — the first great Russian scholar — was the son of 
 an Archangel fisherman, 
 t Ancient name of Russia.
 
 68 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 PROPRIETY. 
 
 Ferdinand, the King, was courtly ! 
 
 Pink of nice refinement he ; 
 All the naked plasts of Venus, 
 
 Placed he under lock and key. 
 
 But the Herculean statues, 
 Left he in their places bare ! 
 
 Men he did not mind offending; 
 Hurt the ladies ? He'd not dare
 
 FROM MAIKOF, 69 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 
 Beautiful I'm not, I know ; 
 
 Useless I in fight ; 
 How to men and maids am I, 
 
 Such a dear dehght ? 
 Songs, Uke sounds that 'mid strings stray, 
 
 Fill this breast of mine, 
 Smiling round my lips they play, 
 
 In my eyes they shine !
 
 70 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 A LITTLE PICTURE. 
 
 AFTER THE PROCLAMATION OF THE I QTH FEB., 1 86 1, 
 FREEING THE SERFS. 
 
 See, in peasant's cottage, flickering 
 
 Shines a little fire, 
 Where, around a little maiden. 
 
 Draws a circle nigher. 
 
 And from word to word her finger 
 
 Slowly pointing leads, 
 As, with effort, to the peasants 
 
 She a paper reads. 
 
 Deep in thought, intently listening. 
 
 They a silence keep ; 
 Save when some one bids the women 
 
 Hush the babes to sleep.
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 71 
 
 Mothers soothe their crying infants 
 
 With the teething toy, 
 While they, too, to catch the reading 
 
 All their ears employ. 
 
 Seated in the chimney corner 
 
 Now for many years, 
 With bent head the grandsire gazes, 
 
 Though he nothing hears. 
 
 Is the maiden clever, that they 
 
 Thus to her give heed ? 
 Nay ! but simply in that household 
 
 She alone could read : 
 
 And her lot it was to read out, 
 
 To the peasants old, 
 The glad news of longed-for freedom, 
 
 Which the paper told. 
 
 The full meaning of the message 
 
 Knew not she nor they ; 
 But all, darkly, felt the dawning 
 
 Of a better day.
 
 72 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 Brothers ! see, the day-dawn flushes ! 
 
 Darkness yields its place, 
 Sons of yours, ere long, will look on 
 
 Daylight face to face. 
 
 More and more let darkness lighten ! 
 
 Day arise in might ! 
 Even now, in vision, see I 
 
 Rays of rising light. 
 
 They are shining on the forehead, 
 
 Gleaming in the look, 
 Of that thoughtful little maiden 
 
 With her little book. 
 
 Freedom, Brothers ! This is only 
 
 First step on the way 
 To the kingdom, where, in knowledge, 
 
 Shines eternal day !
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 73 
 
 THE ALPINE GLACIER. 
 
 Dank the darkness on the cliff side; 
 
 Faintly outlined from below, 
 In their modest maiden gladness, 
 
 Glaciers in the dawn's blush glow. 
 
 What new life upon me blowing, 
 Breathes from yonder snowy height, 
 
 From that depth of limpid turquoise 
 Flashing in the morning light ? 
 
 There, I know, dread Terror dwelleth, 
 Track of man there is not there ; 
 
 Yet my heart in answer swelleth 
 
 To the challenge, " Come thou here ! "
 
 74 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Little sufferer — all on fire ! 
 
 All's to him so trying ! 
 On my shoulder lean thy head, 
 
 On my bosom lying ! 
 I will walk about with thee, 
 
 Sleep, my own sweet dearie. 
 Shall I tell a little tale ? 
 
 " Once there lived a fairy " — 
 No ? Thee likes not silly tales ? 
 
 P'r'aps a song will take thee ! 
 " Pine-wood rustling dark and dank. 
 
 Big fox ^ wee fox, wakes he. 
 hi the dark pine-wood will I " 
 
 Is my own pet sleeping ? 
 " Gather blackberries for thee 
 
 Brimful baskets heaping.
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 75 
 
 In the dark pine-wood will I ■ 
 Hush ! he fast is sleeping. 
 
 Open wide his feverish lips, 
 Like a wee bird, keeping. 
 
 " In the dark pine-wood will /," 
 
 Walks the mother, singing — 
 Till the long dark night declines, 
 
 Back the day-dawn bringing. 
 Singing — while her weary arms 
 
 With dull pain are tingling — 
 Walks the mother ; with her sighs 
 
 Frequent tears are mingling ; 
 And scarce stirs the restless child, 
 
 Tossing in its fever, 
 Ere again that song resounds, 
 
 Soft and low as ever. 
 
 With thy scythe depart, O Death, 
 Spare the tender blossom 1 
 
 Fierce the fight ere she will yield 
 Baby from her bosom. 
 
 With her whole soul will she shield, 
 E'en though sore affrighted,
 
 76 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 That mysterious flame of life 
 Which from her was lighted, 
 
 For scarce rose that little flame, 
 Ere to her revealed was 
 
 What of love, — of wondrous power, - 
 In her breast concealed was.
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 77 
 
 THE KISS REFUSED. 
 
 I WOULD kiss you, lover true ! 
 But I fear the moon may spy ; 
 Little bright stars watch us too. 
 Little star might fall from sky 
 To the blue sea, telling all ! 
 To the oars the sea will tell, 
 Oars, in turn, tell Fisher Eno — 
 Him whom Mary loveth well — 
 And, when Mary knows a thing, 
 All the neighbourhood will know, 
 How by moonlight, in the garden, 
 Where the fragrant flowers grow, 
 I caressed, and fondly kissed thee, 
 While the silver apple-tree 
 Shed its blooms on you and me I
 
 78 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 How pure and how sweet, 
 Little snowdrop, you blow ! 
 While, by you peeped through, 
 
 Fade the last streaks of snow. 
 Thus our last tears stream 
 
 For a sorrow gone by, 
 While dawns the first dream 
 
 Of a joy drawing nigh.
 
 FROM MAIKOF. 79 
 
 * » 
 
 * 
 
 A SMILE and a tear, the sun and the shower, 
 
 How sweet they flash and flow ! 
 Like sunlight clear, through the sparkling tear 
 
 Shines thy soul, refreshed by woe.
 
 8o RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM COUNT TOLSTOI. 
 
 BELIEVE IT NOT. 
 
 Believe it not, when in excess of sorrow 
 
 I murmur that my love for thee is o'er ! 
 
 When ebbs the tide, think not the sea's a traitor — 
 
 He will return and love the land once more, 
 
 I still am pining, full of former passion, 
 
 To thee, again, my freedom I'll restore. 
 
 E'en as the waves, with homeward murmur flowing, 
 
 Roll back from far to the beloved shore.
 
 FROM COUNT TOLSTOI. 
 
 THE SCOLDING. 
 
 Do not scold me so, my dear, 
 
 Wrath with words so feebly matching 
 Such a scolding soothes my ear ; 
 
 I'm your words intent on catching ; 
 As they issue suddenly, 
 
 Pouring forth in pretty prattling, 
 What marvel that they sound to me 
 
 Pearls on silver salver rattling !
 
 82 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM 
 VLADIMIR VLADISLAVLEF. 
 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 Pressed cheek to cheek we stand before the glass, 
 Wherein our forms reflected shine, 
 Gloomy my glance ; but thy alluring face 
 With warmth and light illumines mine ! 
 
 So on the bosom of the sleeping wave 
 
 The moon smiles with reflected light, 
 
 Full of the peace that dawns beyond the grave, 
 
 Softening the darkness of the night.
 
 FROM VLADISLAVLEF. 83 
 
 THE WOULD-BE NUN. 
 
 No, no ! I can't believe you ! 
 
 Cease, cease to prattle so 
 Of single bliss, monastic vows, 
 
 And prayerful life below ! 
 
 No, no ! I can't believe you ! 
 
 That stately form divine, 
 That breast, that neck, those breathing limbs 
 
 To convent cell confine ! 
 
 Yourself you don't believe it ! 
 
 Your words your glance belies, 
 And, full of other fancies, 
 
 Protest those flashing eyes.
 
 84 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE SCHOOLBOY'S DEVIL. 
 
 You knew, of course, my special devil ? 
 
 His cunning and his boldness charmed ; 
 Pressed to my breast this sprite of evil 
 I warmed. 
 
 At first he worried me with fear ; 
 
 I timid was, and mild, and young. 
 My shoulders were too weak to bear 
 His tongue. 
 
 Holding some mild traditions yet, 
 
 I shook and trembled, oft, in awe, 
 Till, lo ! in him the Muse's pet 
 I saw. 
 
 He caught me, then, with flash of phrase, 
 
 With living fantasies entranced, 
 And wicked eyes from grave to gay 
 He glanced !
 
 FROM VLADISLAVLEF. 85 
 
 With fiery speech well fused together, 
 Our friendly union grew complete, 
 Although at times with wintry weather 
 We'd meet. 
 
 Designing once to cause his death. 
 My fingers in a cross I twirled,* 
 Out came his tongue ; off in a breath 
 He whirled. 
 
 But scarcely dawns the Eastern light. 
 The nightly blackness scarce is o'er. 
 Ere back he comes, my foe, my sprite, 
 Once more. 
 
 How smart he's grown ! and well up, too. 
 
 In Darwin's and Descartes' style ! 
 He knows the sex ; nor strange to loo 
 Meanwhile. 
 
 And chess he also right well knows, 
 
 And often billiards is his fad — 
 At times about this game he grows 
 Quite mad. 
 
 * I.e. made with the two first fingers and thumb, the sign of the 
 Russian cross.
 
 86 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 You knew him well, of course, of yore. 
 
 He cunning was, and boldly charmed ; 
 I pressed him to my bosom's core, 
 And warmed. 
 
 Ah ! have I tired my friendly sprite ? 
 
 His friendship's flame has colder grown ; 
 He now forgets and leaves me quite 
 Alone.
 
 SONG. 87 
 
 POPULAR SONG. 
 
 THE GIPSY MAID. 
 
 I LOVE thee ! And believe it true ! 
 
 The while your gif)sy maid avows 
 That unto death she'll love but you, 
 
 While life's blood in her bosom flows. 
 
 For you she'll leave her home of old, 
 She'll follow you the wide world o'er. 
 
 The gipsy's love will ne'er grow cold 
 Until the gipsy breathes no more. 
 
 Black bread, while meal to meal succeeds, 
 Her passion ne'er will lull to sleep ; 
 
 One burning kiss is all she needs, 
 Her gipsy blood its warmth will keep.
 
 88 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 When time of trial draweth nigh, 
 No burning tears will she outpour ; 
 
 Well skilled is she in misery — 
 
 'Twill only make her love thee more. 
 
 No change which doth our being move 
 A single pang to her can give ; 
 
 But change in him her soul doth love 
 She hath no power to overlive.
 
 FROM TYOUCHEF. 89 
 
 FROM TYOUCHEF. 
 
 Scarce cooled from midday heat 
 
 Sparkles the summer night ; 
 O'er sinful earth a threatening cloud 
 
 Trembles, with lightnings bright. 
 Heaven's sleepy eyelids ope, 
 
 And through each distant gleam, 
 The threatening orbs of One above 
 
 O'er earth to kindle seem.
 
 90 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE SPRING STORM. 
 
 I LOVE the storm in early May, 
 
 When spring's first maiden thunder peals, 
 And, laughing in its frolic play, 
 
 Across the blue sky softly steals. 
 
 The little rumblings roll and ring ; 
 
 The rain-shower glistens ; flies the dust ; 
 The rain-drop pearls in clusters cling, 
 
 And golden gleams the fields encrust. 
 
 From hillside headlong speeds the rill, 
 In groves the birds keep twittering, 
 
 And chattering wood and murmuring hill 
 Echo with joy the thundering.
 
 FROM PRINCE VYAZEMSKI. 91 
 
 PRINCE VYAZEMSKI. 
 
 THE TROIKA* 
 
 Speeds the troika, leaping, bounding, 
 'Neath the horsehoofs dust-clouds fly, 
 
 While the little bells keep tinkling, 
 Weeping, laughing merrily. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Speed I, speed I, speed I to her 
 Speed I to my well-beloved ! 
 
 Down the road, with glad notes ringing, 
 
 Echoes wide the joyous peal ; 
 Now afar they jingle clearly, 
 
 Nor in muffled notes they steal. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 * Sledge or car with three horses harnessed abreast.
 
 92 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 Sails the moon from out the cloudlets ; 
 
 Full reveals her luminous ring ; 
 And a rippling gleam of silver 
 
 O'er the traveller's face doth fling. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Who and whence this nightly traveller ? 
 
 Is his distant journey done? 
 For his own or other's pleasure 
 
 Speeds he through the dark alone ? 
 
 Chonis, 
 
 Who can tell ! He still is far off; 
 
 Plunged in cloud the moonbeams sweep, 
 While afar on distant moorland 
 
 Little bells are lulled to sleep. 
 
 Chorus.
 
 FROM LEBEDEF. 93 
 
 FROM LEBEDEF. 
 
 THEODORA. 
 
 " So thou art he who yesterday 
 Didst round the arena roam — 
 
 Thy rivals scourge ? thy chariot smoked, 
 Reeking with bloody foam. 
 
 " Now thou art mine ! Upon this couch 
 
 Recline and yield to me, 
 Until the morning's rosy light 
 
 My palace windows see." 
 
 '* Ah, Theodora, ne'er before 
 Have I thy threshold passed ; 
 
 Thy cups of gold amaze my sight. 
 Thy fretted ceilings vast.
 
 94 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 " Yet I know all. Through our stern land 
 
 The talk of thee has sped ; 
 How every night a new Elect 
 
 Appears beside this bed. 
 
 " How, till the dawn, with burning kiss 
 
 The hps of lovers sting ; 
 While to the folds of Eastern stuffs 
 
 The Eastern odours ding. 
 
 " But I, a simple country clown, 
 
 A common clod, who sport 
 In games with Death, am all unused 
 
 To splendours of a Court. 
 
 " Thy pardon ! But it seems to me 
 That burning Lust doth stream 
 
 In this blue odour's upward curl, 
 From yon bright marble's gleam. 
 
 " Nay, Theodora, let me go ! 
 
 And keep thy whim's reward 
 For nobles of the Bosphorus ! 
 
 For slaves " 
 
 " Enough ! Ho, Guard ! "
 
 FROM H. 95 
 
 FROM H. 
 
 THE LIE'S EXCUSE. 
 
 I LIE, whene'er as if by chance 
 
 I fix on thee my gaze ; 
 I lie, whene'er my saddened glance 
 
 Upon another strays. 
 
 I lie, whene'er I strive to speak 
 
 To thee with unconcern ; 
 For while to laugh and joke I seek, 
 
 My heavy heart doth burn. 
 
 I lie, whene'er I feign to shun 
 The meeting I have sought ; 
 
 While hanging on each word of thine 
 I strive to seem distraught. 
 
 'Tis all a lie ! Yet for the lie 
 I scarce reproached can be, 
 
 When I declare, 'fore God I swear. 
 How great my love for thee.
 
 95 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM DERJAVIN. 
 
 THE STREAM OF TIME. 
 
 The stream of time, with onward sweep, 
 Bears off men's works, all human things, 
 And plunges o'er Oblivion's steep 
 Peoples and kingdoms with their kings. 
 If for a space amidst the swirl 
 The lyre or trumpet some sustain. 
 They're swept at last in ceaseless whirl. 
 And none escape Fate's common main.
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 97 
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 No frost, and the flowers would bloom 
 
 Even in wintry weather. 
 No fret would be mine, if I 
 
 And grief did not dwell together ; 
 Ne'er should I sit, as I sit 
 
 Here, with a sob in my bosom, 
 Gazing on open fields — 
 
 Fields with never a blossom ! 
 Then to my father said I, 
 
 " Marry me, sir, to my equal ; 
 Don't think of splendours for me : 
 
 What meaneth rank in the sequel ? 
 Don't look for spacious abodes ; 
 
 I have no wish to be wealthy. 
 Give me a husband that's true ; 
 
 Give me a husband that's healthy." 
 
 H
 
 98 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 THE GRAIN. 
 
 A GRAIN adown the velvet strolled — glory ! 
 
 No purer pearl could be — glory ! 
 
 The pearl against a ruby rolled — glory ! 
 
 Most beautiful to see — glory ! 
 
 Big is the pearl by ruby's side — glory ! 
 
 Well for the bridegroom with his bride — glory
 
 NATIONAL SONGS. 99 
 
 WEDDING GEAR. 
 
 The blacksmith from the forge comes he — 
 
 Glory ! 
 And carries with him hammers three — 
 
 Glory ! 
 Oh, blacksmith, blacksmith, forge for me — 
 
 Glory ! 
 A wedding crown of gold,* bran-new ! — 
 
 Glory ! 
 A golden ring, oh, make me, do ! — 
 
 Glory ! 
 With what is left a gold pin too ! — 
 
 Glory ! 
 The crown on wedding day I'll wear — 
 
 Glory ! 
 
 * During the wedding ceremony in Russia, the bride and bride- 
 groom wear metal crowns.
 
 loo RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 On golden ring my troth I'll swear — 
 
 Glory! 
 
 The pin will bind my veil to hair — 
 
 Glory !
 
 FROM DOROSHKEVICH. loi 
 
 FROM DOROSHKEVICH. 
 
 SEBASTOPOL. 
 
 What wondrous heroes thou didst rear 
 Behind thy ramparts roughly-raised ! 
 
 Europe, the wide world far and near, 
 Thy glorious gallantry amazed. 
 
 Thine annals, to posterity 
 
 As bright examples, will recall 
 
 Thy long heroic agony ; 
 
 Nay, more — thy great heroic fall.
 
 I02 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM POLONSKI. 
 
 ON SKOBELEF. 
 
 He stood alone ! 
 Around, from East, from West, 
 By Russia watched from far, 
 A giant — nay ! a god of war. 
 Beneath the hostile fire he stood 
 Unmoved, in reckless hardihood. 
 His snow-white vest on battle-field 
 Seemed covered by St. Michael's shield. 
 And now his life is reft ; that strength 
 Broken at length. . . .
 
 FROM KRYLOF. 103 
 
 FROM KRYLOF. 
 
 FABLE. 
 
 Whene'er companions don't agree, 
 
 They work without accord ; 
 And naught but trouble doth result, 
 
 Although they all work hard. 
 
 One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab, 
 
 Resolved a load to haul. 
 All three were harnessed to the cart, 
 
 And pulled together all. 
 But though they pulled with all their might, 
 That cart-load on the bank stuck tight. 
 
 The Swan pulled upwards to the skies. 
 The Crab did backwards crawl, 
 
 The Pike made for the water straight : 
 This proved no use at all.
 
 IC4 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 Now, which of them was most to blame 
 
 'Tis not for me to say, 
 But this I know — the load is there 
 
 Unto this very day.
 
 POPULAR SONG. loj 
 
 CHILD'S SONG. 
 LITTLE BIRDIE. 
 
 The first in the spring, 
 
 From its earliest day, 
 To God do I sing; 
 
 He feeds me alway, 
 I sow not, nor spin, 
 
 I toil not for food ; 
 I love the sweet spring — 
 
 Blithe, then, is my mood. 
 My nest's in the field ; 
 
 I live in the sky ; 
 I skim o'er the meads ; 
 
 Through flower-beds I fly. 
 At times o'er the streams 
 
 Like arrow I sweep ; 
 The swiftest of steeds 
 
 Can't pace with me keep.
 
 io6 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 And yet I am caught 
 
 By one little grain, 
 And thus, for my life, 
 
 A prisoner remain. 
 For grain, as a snare, 
 
 With cunning is set ; 
 One glance — and lo ! there, 
 
 The bird's in the net.
 
 FROM LAL. 107 
 
 FROM LAL. 
 
 ADVICE. 
 
 They say a Greek philosopher 
 Thought long, both night and day, 
 
 How for the cure of human woes 
 To find the surest way. 
 
 "The bad," he found, " without a doubt, 
 Dwelt but in woman's ways." 
 
 So he advised, most earnestly, 
 " Don't on a woman gaze." 
 
 Now, I before you put the case — 
 Did he find right or wrong? 
 
 If he found right, then his advice 
 Was hardly worth a song.
 
 loS RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 To those who wish with certainty 
 From marriage bonds to fly, 
 
 I give this counsel, " Constantly 
 On women keep an eye."
 
 THE TITULAR COUNCILLOR. 109 
 
 THE TITULYARNYI SOVETNIK* 
 
 He was a Ninth-class Councillor, 
 
 And she a General's daughter. 
 
 He timidly declared his love ; 
 
 She spurned him when he sought her. 
 
 Then went that Ninth-class Councillor, 
 And drowned his grief in drinking ; 
 
 And through the vinous fumes all night 
 
 That General's girl came blinking — blinking. 
 
 * Titular councillor = Ninth-class (civil rank) in the Russian 
 Table of Precedence, corresponding to rank of Captain in the Army 
 or Lieutenant in the Navy.
 
 no RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM K. P. 
 
 (H.I.H, Grand Prince Constantine 
 
 CONSTANTINOVICH.) 
 
 No ! I can ne'er believe, no recollection 
 Of life — beyond the grave we'll bear away ; 
 
 That Death doth end our joy and our affliction, 
 And shed deep sleep on our forgotten day ? 
 
 Can eyes, when opened there, forget their seeing ? 
 
 Can ears their power of hearing lose for aye ? 
 In grave's dark night can memories of past being 
 
 Be by the ransomed spirit cast away ? 
 
 Did Raphael there forget his great " Madonna," 
 What time he woke to light in realms above ? 
 
 Did Shakespeare ne'er recall his Hamlet's honour ? 
 His Requiem hath Mozart ceased to love ?
 
 FROM K. P. Ill 
 
 It cannot be ! Nay ! all that's good, that's holy, 
 We'll live again after this life's good-bye ; 
 
 And we shall not forget, but, without passion, lowly, 
 We'll love again, merged in the Deity.
 
 112 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 TO THE POET MA IK OF. 
 
 Thy soul entrancing lyre, 
 
 Thy songs of purity, 
 Have borne to us but notes of Good, 
 
 Peace, Hope, and Charity. 
 
 To please the fickle crowd. 
 
 False notes thou ne'er didst sing ; 
 Nor to the passions of the mob 
 
 Thy sacred freedom fling. 
 
 Thou'st sung for fifty years, 
 Crowned with immortal bay, 
 
 A song to raise the soul of man 
 And cheer his upward way. 
 
 Oh, could these chords prolong 
 
 To us thy legacy, 
 With what unrivalled aims endowed 
 
 Would our true poets be !
 
 FROM SHENSHIN [FET). 113 
 
 FROM SHENSHIN (FET.). 
 
 A RUSSIAN SCENE. 
 
 Wondrous the picture, 
 How homelike to me ! — 
 Distant plain whitening, 
 Full moon on the lea ; 
 Light — in the heaven's high. 
 And snow flashing bright ; 
 Sledge in the distance 
 In its lonely flight,
 
 114 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 TRYST. 
 
 A WHISPER, a gentle sigh, 
 
 Trills of the nightingale ; 
 The silver flash of the brook, 
 
 Asleep in the sleepy vale. 
 The shadows and shine of night — 
 
 Shadows in endless race ; 
 The sweep of a magical change 
 
 Over a sweet young face. 
 The blush of a rose in the mist, 
 
 An amber gleam on the lawn ; 
 A rush of kisses and tears — 
 
 And oh, " the Dawn ! the Dawn
 
 FROM PL ESHEEF. 1 1 5 
 
 FROM PLESHEEF. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Ah I who art thou, fair maid, with upland flowers 
 
 Twined in the glossy silk of golden hair, 
 With smile sunbright, with eyes the dove in hue, 
 
 With raylike raiment spun from upper air ? 
 Who gifted thee with deep mysterious power 
 
 To heal the aching heart of human woe ? 
 At thy approach delights that long lay dead 
 
 Revive, and once again with glad life glow. 
 To honour thee a hymn doth Nature raise ; 
 
 The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend ; 
 And pinewoods dark, shimmering in every spray, 
 
 To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend. 
 
 I'm but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high 
 To weary souls a draught of peace to bring. 
 
 To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity ; 
 
 I'm but a Stranger-Guest — they call me " Spring."
 
 ii6 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 PASSION. 
 
 Ah ! could I but utter in song 
 
 All the anguish which robs me of peace, 
 Thy sorrow of soul would be stilled, 
 
 Thy murmur of doubting would cease ! 
 I would breathe forth my life, my beloved, 
 
 As I told all my pain for thy sake ; 
 And, bursting in passionate song, 
 
 My heart in its fulness would break.
 
 FROM E. KYLAEF. wj 
 
 FROM E. KYLAEF. 
 
 BILLOWS, 
 
 Rushing on, rushing on, speed the billows uproarious, 
 
 Breathing hard o'er the depths of the sea ; 
 They roll and they rage, full of majesty glorious. 
 
 In broad ridges, boundless and free — 
 Speeding on to the shore where the tall cliffs are gleaming, 
 
 Glancing down o'er the deep of the blue ; 
 So my thoughts from afar, whether waking or dreaming, 
 
 Stream ever, dear country, to you.
 
 Ii8 RHYMES FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 FROM COUNT T 
 
 NO HALF-MEASURES, 
 If you love — then, love without reason ; 
 
 If you threaten— don't threaten in play ; 
 If you strike— strike straight from the shoulder 
 
 If you storm— to full fury give way ; 
 If you battle— then, do it with boldness ; 
 . If you punish— let punishment tell ; 
 If you pardon— then, pardon in earnest ; 
 
 If you feast— then, be sure you feast well !
 
 I!Y WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITFD, 
 LONDON AND BECCLES.
 
 THE LIBRARY^
 
 Jrfi P 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 ^^(TO iBWJt 
 
 MAX 2 2 1987 
 
 >e8!'^'
 
 
 =3 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^TiHONVSOl^ "^AaiAiNn-ii 
 
 > =i 
 
 -n <-< 
 
 o .^ 
 
 50 
 
 3 1158 00837 6062 
 
 ^>MllBRARYO/ 
 
 =0 
 '^(!/0JnVDJO^ 
 
 
 ^^^Aavaan-^^"^ 
 
 .^^t■llBRARY•ar, 
 
 <- 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 541 385 1 
 
 .\WMjNIVtRJ// 
 5I o<: 
 
 OQ 
 
 <ril33NVS01^' 
 
 >- 
 
 !=^ 
 
 
 ^'0 
 
 ©\ 
 
 dOV^ 
 
 z ^ 
 
 ^x 
 
 *c 
 
 ^.OPTAtirnr.
 
 4