Chapter I: Loved Thee

I loved thee; and perchance until this moment Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal, Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!

I loved thee with a silent desperation-- Now timid, now with jealousy brought low, I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion-- Ah may God grant another love thee so!

PUSHKIN.

A SERENADE

I watch Inesilla
Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
In night's dusky sheath.

Enamoured I linger,
Close mantled, for thee--
With sword and with guitar,
O look once on me!

Art sleeping? Wilt wake thee
Guitar tones so light?
The argus-eyed greybeard
My swift sword shall smite.

The ladder of ropes
Throw me fearlessly now!
Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet,
Been false to thy vow?

I watch Inesilla
Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
In night's dusky sheath!

PUSHKIN.

A WINTER EVENING

Sable clouds by tempest driven, Snowflakes whirling in the gales, Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, Hark--now like a child it wails! Creeping through the rustling straw thatch, Rattling on the mortared walls, Like some weary wanderer knocking-- On the lowly pane it falls.

Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen, Drear and lonely our retreat, Speak a word and break the silence, Dearest little Mother, sweet! Has the moaning of the tempest Closed thine eyelids wearily? Has the spinning wheel's soft whirring Hummed a cradle song to thee?

Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, Thou true-souled companion dear-- Let us drink! Away with sadness! Wine will fill our hearts with cheer. Sing the song how free and careless Birds live in a distant land-- Sing the song of maids at morning Meeting by the brook's clear strand!

Sable clouds by tempest driven, Snowflakes whirling in the gales, Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, Hark--now like a child it wails! Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, Thou true-souled companion dear, Let us drink! Away with sadness! Wine will fill our hearts with cheer!

PUSHKIN.

THE LAST FLOWER

Rich the first flower's graces be, But dearer far the last to me; My spirit feels renewal sweet, Of all my dreams hope or desire-- The hours of parting oft inspire More than the moments when we meet!

PUSHKIN.

THE COMING OF THE WINTER

_Stanzas from "Onegin"_

Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer, Than Southern Winter scarce more bland-- Is undeniably withdrawing On fleeting footsteps from the land. Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens, The light of sunbeams rarer grown-- Already every day is shorter, While with a smitten hollow tone The forest drops its shadow leafage; Upon the fields the mists lie white, In lusty caravans the wild geese Now to the milder South take flight; Seasons of tedium draw near, Before the door November drear!

From shivering mist ascends the morning, The bustle, of the fields declines, The wolf walks now upon the highway, In wolfish hunger howls and whines; The traveller's pony scents him, snorting-- The heedful wanderer breathless takes His way in haste beyond the mountains! And though no longer when day breaks Forth from their stalls the herd begins To drive the kine,--his noon-day horn recalls. The peasant maiden sings and spins, Before her crackling, flaming bright The pine chips,--friend of Winter night.

And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles And spreads its silver o'er the fields, Alas! the golden days are vanished! Reluctant Nature mournful yields. The stream with ice all frozen over Gleams as some fashionable parquét, And thronging hordes of boyish skaters Sweep forward on its crystal way. On her red claws despondent swimming, The plump goose parts the water cold, Then on the ice with caution stalking She slips and tumbles,--ah behold! Now the first snowflake idling down Stars the depressing landscape brown.

At such a season in the country, What can a man's amusements be? Walk? And but more of empty highway And of deserted village see? Or let him through the far Steppes gallop, His horse can scarcely stand at all-- His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold, The rider dreading lest he fall! So then remain within thy paling, Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott, Compare thy varying editions, Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not! As the long evenings drag away So doth the Winter too delay.

PUSHKIN.

_[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw were demanded_.]

FROM "ONEGIN"

Sometimes he read aloud with Olga A latter day romance discreet, Whose author truly painted nature, With cunning plot, insight complete; Oft he passed over a few pages, Too bald or tasteless in their art-- And coloring, began on further, Not to disturb the maiden heart. Again, they sat for hours together, With but a chess board to divide; She with her arms propped on the table, Deep pondering, puzzled to decide-- Till Lenski from his inward storm Captured her castle with his pawn!

PUSHKIN.

FROM "ONEGIN"

Love condescends to every altar, Ah when in hearts of youth it springs, Its coming brings such glad refreshment As May rain o'er the pasture flings! Lifted from passion's melancholy The life breaks forth in fairer flower, The soul receives a new enrichment-- Fruition sweet and full of power. But when on later altars arid It downward sweeps, about us flows-- Love leaves behind such deathly traces As Autumn tempests where it blows To strip the woods with ruthless hand, And turn to soggy waste the land!

PUSHKIN.

FROM "ONEGIN"

How sad to me is thine appearing, O Springtime, hour of love's unrest! Within the soul what nameless languors! What passions hid within the breast! With what a heavy, heavy spirit From the earth's rustic lap I feel Again the joy of Springtide odors-- That once could make my spirit reel! No more for me such pleasures thrilling, All that rejoices, that has life, All that exults,--brings but despondence To one past passion as past strife, All is but prose to such as he, Wearied unto satiety.

Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed That which in Autumn drooped and pined, Now radiant in verdure springing, Since it must of our loss remind; As with a tortured soul we realize In Nature's glad awakening, That we shall never find renewal, Who evermore are withering. Perchance there haunts us in remembrance, Our own most dear and lyric dream, Another long forgotten Springtime-- And trembling neath this pang supreme, The heart faints for a distant country And for a night beside the sea!

PUSHKIN.

THE MEMORIAL

Beyond compare the monument I have erected, And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,-- Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar The Emperor Alexander hath!

I shall not vanish wholly,--No! but young forever My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring, And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance While yet one Singer lives to sing.

My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia, Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide, The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me-- The Tungoose in his reindeer hide.

Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished, Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed, In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom, And never for their pleasures blamed.

O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever! Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain-- Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation, And argument with Fools disdain!

PUSHKIN.

_The Alexander column, standing before the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg, is a monolith eighty feet high; with the pedestal measuring one hundred and fifty feet_.

TAMARA

Where waves of the Terek are waltzing
In Dariel's wickedest pass,
There rises from bleakest of storm crags
An ancient grey towering mass.

In this tower by mad winds assaulted,
Sat ever Tamara, the Queen--
A heavenly angel of beauty,
With a spirit of hell's own demesne.

Through the mist of the night her gold fires
Gleamed down through the valley below,
A welcome they threw to the pilgrim,
In their streaming and beckoning glow.

How clear rang the voice of Tamara!
How amorous did it invite!
The heart of the stranger enticing,
Seducing with magic delight!

The warrior was snared by her singing,
Nor noble, nor herd could withstand--
Then noiseless her portal was opened
By eunuchs of shadowy hand.

With pearls rare adorned and strange jewels,
Reposed on a billowy nest,
A prey to voluptuous longing,
Tamara awaited her guest.

With passioned and thrilling embracement,
With straining of breast unto breast,
With sighing and trembling and transport--
In lust's unrestrained, giddy zest--

So revelled 'mid desolate ruins,
Of Lovers,--past counting at least!
In their bridal night's wild distraction,
And in truth at their own death feast.

For when from the peaks of the mountains
The sun tore the night's veiling soft,
There reigned anew only the silence
On turret and casement aloft.

And only the Terek bewailing
With fury broke in on the hush,
As dashing her billows on billows
Her writhing floods onward did rush.

A youth's form her currents are bearing,
Ah vainly they murmur and swell!
A woman, a pale and a fair one--
Cries down from her tower "Farewell!"

Her voice has the sound of faint weeping,
So amorous, tender and sweet--
As if she in love's holy rapture
Did promise of meeting repeat!

LERMONTOFF.

[_Tamara is the Russian Lorelei. The ruins of her castle are still shown in the pass of Darjal on the famous Georgian Road_.]

THE GIFT OF THE TEREK

Through the rocks in wildest courses
Seethes the Terek grim of mood,
Tempest howling its bewailing,
Pearled with foam its tearful flood.

At the mountain's feet soft streaming,
Gentler grown its murmurs be,
And with greeting full of fawning
Speaks to the Caspian Sea:

"Hospitable part thy billows,
Give me room, oh Ocean grave!
From a distance drawing thither--
Scarce my weary currents wave.

Born upon the edge of Kasbek,
By the breast of clouds renewed,
Hatred have I sworn to mankind,
Who with us, the free, make feud.

See, by rage of my own fury
Lies despoiled my Darjal home,
And as playthings for thy children,
Pebbles bearing now I come."

Yet upon her strands a'dreaming,
Mute the grey Sea did remain,
And the Terek, silver foaming,
Spoke caressingly again.

"Grey Sea I would serve thee only,
Have a present borne to-day--
See, 'tis a young Carabineer
Who has fallen in the fray.

How his coat of mail is gleaming
Silver on the billows' span!
Golden on his trappings shining
Blessing of the Alcoran!

Menacing the one who slew him
Scowls the brow's relentless feud,
By his noble life blood crimsoned
O'er his lips his hair is glued.

Through the half-closed eyelids glancing
Still the lust of quarrel mocks,
From his head deep underneath him
Flow the matted raven locks."

Motionless upon her beaches
Did the grey Sea still remain,
And the Terek foaming yellow
In displeasure spoke again.

"So then, take him as a present,
As I nothing fairer know
On this round earth,--for thee only
This rare prize I've guarded so!

'Tis a mountain Cossack's body
Wafted 'mid my billows' dance,
See his hair,--no silk is softer--
See his shoulder's gold expanse!

See how o'er his red lips speechless
Now the seated eyes find rest;
Trickling yet the purple life blood
From the small wound on his breast.

For a young and holy maiden,
Weeps lamenting, every heart!
One sole Cossack in the village,
In this mourning takes no part.

From the confines of his country
Rode he forth with boding grey,
'Neath the dagger of the Tscherkes
He has breathed his soul away."

And the Terek paused; behold now
In the gleaming foam flood drowned,
Silvered in the spraying billows
Dips a head with rushes crowned.

And the hoary one's lips whisper
Haughty words of youthful fire,
And the eyes lit with love lustre
Flame with passionate desire.

Foaming, rushing on swift longing,
Seethed he up in youthful zest--
And the Terek flood was wedded
With him in embraces blest.

LERMONTOFF.

ON DEPARTURE FOR THE CAUCAS

Farewell my hateful Russian country!
People of lord and serf you are--
Farewell, salute, bent knee and hand-kiss,
Three-masters, uniform and star!

Soon will the Caucas now conceal me,
There I shall not discovered be
By eyes and ears of paid, false sergeants--
Who all do hear and all do see!

LERMONTOFF.

TO THE CLOUDS

Clouds--ye eternal wanderers in hunting grounds of air, High o'er the verdant Steppes, wide through the blue of heaven-- Coursing fraternal,--say, must ye exiled as I From the beloved North to the far South be driven?

O tell me, were ye outlawed thus by Fate's behest? Drives ye forth open hate, or secret grudge flee ye? Follows ye unappeased an evil-doer's curse? Are ye pursued by poisonous words of calumny?

Ah no! Only from the unfruitful earth ye fly; Free are your sufferings, your blessedness is free, Ye know not wretchedness that holds us here in chains, Know not the joy of home or exile's misery!

LERMONTOFF.

TO MY COUNTRY

With love of my own race I cling unto my country, Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry; The shame alone of all her blood bought glory, Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride, And the ancestral faith's traditions dark, With woe have penetrated all my heart.

And yet I love it! Why, I cannot say; The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding, In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing-- The flood's high water on all sides in May. By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness, Through the lone wilderness and village desolate, How hospitable shines the sole beam sparkling To me from each poor hut! Filled with content so great, The smell of stubble burnt, delights. Piled high The wagons silent standing take their nightly rest, On distant hills the silver birches I descry, Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest. Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant, I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant, The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again, The window panels carved, of varied stain.

Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested, Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd, Watching the villager,--young, happy, festive-- And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse!

LERMONTOFF.

TO KASBEK

With wingéd footsteps now I hasten Unto the far cold North away, Kasbek,--thou watchman of the East, To thee, my farewell greetings say!

Since all eternity, a turban Snow white, thy glorious brow has veiled, The peace sublime about thy glacier The strife of man has ne'er assailed.

Accept my humble supplication, Hear thy submissive faithful son, To starry heights lift his entreaty To Allah's everlasting throne.

I do implore--spice breathing coolness Through sultry sun-glow in the vale, A stone for rest unto the pilgrim In whirling dust of desert gale.

Turn, I implore, the storm's hot hatred, The deadly thunderous lightning's course-- In Dariel's wild pass protect me And my distracted, trembling horse.

Yet one prayer more my heart audacious, Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress, What if my native land forget me In my sad exile's loneliness?

Will, greeting me by name familiar, My friend then open wide his arms? Will e'en my brothers recognise me, So changed by many griefs and harms?

Perchance my foot will fall profaning Dust of those loved in youth's far day, The pure and noble, deeply trusted-- Withered as Autumn leaves in May.

O Kasbek, then with earth o'erwhelm me! Snow o'er thy weary wanderer back, And blow away my dust and scatter Along thy rock-ridged clefts lone track!

LERMONTOFF.

THE ANGEL

Soft singing at midnight through heaven's high blue
A beautiful angel once flew;
The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng
Attended his wonderful song!

He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coasts
Where live and exult the pure ghosts,
Their songs glad extolling Almighty's grace
Repeated from race unto race.

In his arms he was bearing a young soul below,
To leave in this world of our woe,
The strains of his singing within her soul beat--
A wordless song, living and sweet!

Long languished her soul in its earthly abode,
With a heavenly longing o'erflowed,
For ne'er were those holy, pure strains of her birth,
Effaced by the songs of the earth.

LERMONTOFF.

A PRAYER

Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling, Image miraculous and merciful--of thee Not for my soul's health nor battles waged, beseeching, Nor yet with thanks or penitence o'erwhelming me!

Not for myself,--my heart with guilt o'erflowing-- Who in my home land e'er a stranger has remained, No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing, That thou protect her innocence unstained!

Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her! Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side, A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil, A spirit where together peace and hope abide.

Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending, Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night-- From out thy highest heaven, thy fairest angel sending The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight!

LERMONTOFF.

THE SAIL

A single sail is bleaching brightly
Upon the waves caressing bland,
What seeks it in a stranger country?
Why did it leave its native strand?
When winds pipe high, load roar the billows
And with a crashing bends the mast,
It does not shun its luckless fortune,
Nor haste to port before the blast.
To-day the sea is clear as azure,
The sun shines gaily, faint the wind--
But it revolting, looks for tempest,
And dreams in storms its peace to find!

LERMONTOFF.

_Lermontoff, being reproached by the critics of his time for imitation of Byron in this poem, defended himself by the following, "I am not Byron!"_