Chapter II: Introduction (1)

Few subjects can be more complacent to the philanthropist than to trace the forward march of mind; peculiarly complacent where its progress is neither slow nor doubtful; where the stream of light spreads widening more and more over the whole surface of society; and more delightful yet, where the first rays of twilight break out of the thick darkness of long and dreary barbarism, and the day advances with sure and steady steps. Such were the circumstances under which Russia presented itself to my contemplation. It had emerged, as it were instantaneously, from a night of ignorance, to occupy a situation in the world of intellect, not contemptible, even when compared with that of southern nations; but singularly striking as contrasted with the almost universal ignorance which pervaded the immense empire of the Tzars, before Peter the Great, the Russian Colossus, as one of their poets calls him, gave it the first impulse towards civilization[1]. The foundation is now laid, on which the proud edifice of civilization will be raised. The moral _vis inertiæ_ is in action: and the immense political influence which Russia has acquired, and seems likely to maintain, will be less appalling, at all events, to the moralist, if not to the statesman, than if wholly unaccompanied by a spirit of literature; while, on the other hand, it is consolatory to remember, that every instance which Russia affords of the advance of knowledge, is a pledge that the blessings of freedom and good government, which follow in the train of intellectual distinction, cannot be for ever shut out.

Lomonosov[2] is the father of Russian poetry. 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. He did more than any other writer to fix the standard of language, and wielded a then uncouth and unformed idiom with singular address and power. A natural sense of harmony and beauty, made sublimer by early contemplation of the prophetic and the poetical compositions of the Old Testament, did more for his own fame, and for the future literary reputation of his country, than could have resulted from the closest acquaintance with the great names of Greece or Rome. His style is singularly vigorous, and his works are distinguished throughout for their bold and impressive character. They have been collected into six volumes; and his name, as well as that of his rival Sumarokov, has already found its way, with some particulars of his life and writings, into our biographical dictionaries[3].

Sumarokov, 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 Lomonosov, 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 composition, in which Russian poetry possesses treasures more varied and more valuable than 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 delightful La Fontaine. Of the dramatic writings of Sumarokov, the best is the tragedy _Demitrĭj Samosvanelz_, or The False Demetrius[4], which has been translated into English.

Von Visin, who seems to have made Moliere his model, improved greatly upon Sumarokov. His two most celebrated comedies are _Nedorosl_, The Spoilt Youth, and _Brigadir_, The Brigadier[5].

Kheraskov holds a high rank among 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 he entitled _Bakhariana, ili Neisviëstnĭj_; Bachariana, or The Unknown; but his great work is _Rossiada, ili Rasrushchenie Kasanij_; The Russiad, or The Destruction of Kasan.

But of all the poets of Russia, Derzhavin 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, characteristic; his subjects generally such as allowed him to give full scope to his ardent imagination 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 addresses 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 _Felitza_.

Bogdanovich has obtained the title of the Russian Anacreon. His _Dushenka_ (Psyche) is a graceful and lovely poem. I mean at some future time to give some extracts from this poem, with specimens of the Russian epics, and longer poetical compositions, which I hope to collect into one volume. He has also written several dramatic pieces.

Bobrov was well acquainted with the literature of the South of Europe, and has transfused many of its beauties into his native tongue. Our English writers especially have given great assistance to his honest plagiarism. His _Khersonida_, an oriental epic poem, is not so good as _Lalla Rookh_, but it is very good notwithstanding.

Kapnist has written on a variety of subjects--odes, songs, romances and translations.

The name of Kostrov closes the list of the most eminent among the deceased poets of Russia. He died, not long ago, in the meridian 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 Gnœdich.

Of all the living writers of Russia, or rather of all the writers Russia ever produced, the most successful and the most popular is Karamsin. Derzhavin called him long ago “the nightingale of poetry,” but it is not to his poetry alone that he owes his fame. Standing 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[6]; a very bad model, it may be added, since the peculiarities which characterize him are only tolerable because they are original. Karamsin’s style was then usually abrupt and unnatural, and its sentimentality wearisome and affected. But he has outlived his errors, and established his reputation on their subjection. His great undertaking, the _Rossijskaje Istorije_ (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 the Russian empire; it has been translated into several European languages; and will probably long maintain a pre-eminent rank among Russian classics, and become one of the standard authorities of history[7].

The peculiar excellence of the Russian fabulists has been mentioned. Sumarokov and Khemnitzer, Dmitriev and Krĭlov, are the most distinguished among them. Dmitriev, who is still living at Moscow, has published a great number of fables and ballads, besides translations from the Latin and other languages. 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.

Krĭlov holds an office in the Imperial library at Petersburg. He is well known to the _bons vivans_ of the English club. His heavy and unwieldy appearance is singularly contrasted with the shrewdness and the grace of his writings. He stings like a wasp, and flies laughingly away, but always leaves his sting behind him. He has published one volume of fables, remarkable for their spirit and originality. He now employs himself in translating Herodotus, having, at an advanced period of life, first entered on the study of the languages of ancient Greece and Rome.

Zhukovskij has printed some poetical translations of distinguished merit from the German, French and English. Among these, his version of Gray’s elegy is entitled to particular praise. For the sake of comparison I give the epitaph.

Sdœs’ pepel iunoshi besvremenno sokrĭli;
Chto slava, shchastie, ne snal on v mirœ sem!
No Musĭ ot nego litza ne otvratili,
I melankholii pechat’ bĭla na nem.

On krotok serdtzem bĭl, chuvstvitelen dushoiu
Chuvstvitel’nĭm Tvoretz nagradu polozhil!
Daril neshchastnĭkh on--chœm tolko mog--slesoiu!
V nagradu ot Tvortza on druga poluchil!

Prokhozhii, udalis’! vo grobœ son svjeshchennĭi!
Sud’ba pochivshikh v nem pokrĭta grosnoimgloi
Nadezha robkaje zhivit ikh pepel tlœnnĭi!
Kto snaet, kto nas zhdet sa grobovoi doskoi!

This piece is one among very many translations from the English. The following verse from Goldsmith’s Edwin and Angelina will be perhaps recognised from its cadence alone.

Voidikh v moi dom--sabot tam chuzhdĭ
Nœt blaga v suetœ!
Nam malĭje denĭ sdœs’ nuzhdĭ!
Na malĭi mig i nœ!

His _Liudmilla_ (an imitation of Leonora) is deemed more beautiful and forcible than the original itself. 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. He has published translations from Tibullus and other classics. His most celebrated composition is his Address to his Penates, which will be found in the present volume. As it introduces in a very agreeable manner the most eminent of the Russian poets, and contains some allusion to Russian manners, it will not, I hope, be without interest to the English reader.

There are many other names which the narrow limits of this volume will not allow to be introduced at length. Mersljekov’s translations from the Greek and Latin classics: those of Gnœdich, Knjezhnin, Milonov, Volkov and Bunina from different sources: Rodsjenkai from Addison, and many others, have produced an admirable effect upon the taste of the nation, and given noble examples for the imitation of Russian bards.

I can scarcely hope to satisfy those who are masters of Russian literature. I have not always satisfied myself; for, far from any feelings of self-complacency, to do full justice to some of the poets of Russia has been beyond the compass of my powers. In the instance of Bogdanovich, especially, the charm I have felt, I have not been able to convey.

No one can be more alive than I am to the extreme difficulty of communicating to a foreign 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 primary and naked thought, requires for its perfect communication a genius equal to its first conception: and, in truth, there are but few instances of enduring and deserved reputation dependent only on successful poetical translations, unaided by the merits of distinguished original works.

One thing, however, is certain; I have intended no wrong,--I hope I have done no wrong, to the names and to the works I now introduce to my countrymen; I mean only to be an honest, conscientious interpreter. Many of the charms of their compositions have probably escaped me: their faults, I am afraid, are but too faithfully rendered; I have discovered many, but I dared not meddle with them.

The measure of the original has been generally preserved. This adhesion to one of the distinguishing characters of poetical composition has been made of late quite a point of conscience 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[8]. It would have been well if our early translators had been more honest and correct in this particular--their aberrations have given a sort of sanction to the wanderings of others. The future poets of Russia have excellent precursors to study, especially as regards the fidelity of their early versions.

A few words on the peculiarities of the Russian language will not, perhaps, be misplaced[9].

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 Novogorod. 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 beginning of the eleventh century by Vladimir the Great, brought with it many words of Greek origin. The Tartars added considerably to the vocabulary during the two centuries of their domination. The intercourse which Peter the Great established with foreign nations, increased 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 expressed by compounds and redundant definitions in any northern tongues. Schlözer calculates, that of the five hundred roots on which the modern Russ is raised, three-fourths of the number are derived from Greek, Latin, and German. Many are of Sans-crit origin, of which Adelung published a list in 1811[10].

Printing was introduced into Russia about the middle of the sixteenth century. The oldest printed book which has been discovered 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 unknown to the English are as follows:

Letters. Sounds and Orthography adopted.
Ж[11] zh.
Ф ph.
Х[12] kh (guttural).
Ц tz.
Ч ch (as in chance).
Ш sh.
Щ[13] shtsh, or shch.
Ы[14] ĭ (dull i).
Ъ[15] terminal.
Ь[16] ditto.
Ѣ[17] œ.
Ю[18] iu.
Я je.

Besides these, there are several letters which seem almost identical as to sound.

Е and Э[19] for e.
И -- І[20] -- i.
С -- З[21] -- s.

Of the above,

Щ appears a compound of Ш and Ч.
Ю -------------------- І -- У.
Я -------------------- І -- Е.

Ѳ (_theta_) and Ѵ (_upsilon_) form a part of the Russian alphabet, but are seldom used. _h_[22], _c_[23], _x_[24], _f_[25], _w_[26], are wanting altogether.

The Russian language may be adapted to almost every species of versification. It is flexible, harmonious, full of rhythmus, rich in compounds, and possesses all the elements of poetry. From the following examples in different measures, some idea may be formed of its natural music.

ADONICS OF FIVE SYLLABLES.

Ti dusha moje
Krasna dævitza,
Moje prezhnjeje
Poliu bovnitza[27].

TROCHAICS OF SEVEN AND EIGHT SYLLABLES.

Stónet sísoi gólu bóchik
Stónet ón i dén’ i nóch’;
Égo mílen’kói druzhéchik,
Otletœ’l daléko próch’[28].

_Derzhavin._

IAMBICS OF SIX AND SEVEN SYLLABLES.

Sakónĭ ó suzhdáiut,
Predmét moéi liubví:
No któ, o sérdtze! mózhet,
Protiv’it’sjé tebǽ[29].

_Karamsin._

DACTYLICS OF SEVEN AND EIGHT SYLLABLES.

Svǽri rabótĭ ne snaíut,
Ptítzĭ zhivút bes trudá;
Liúdi ne svǽri ne ptítzĭ,
Liúdi rabótoi zhiv`út[30].

_Karamsin._

ALEXANDRINES.

Bozhéstvennĭí metáll! krasjéshchíi ístukánov,
Zhivótvorjéshchajé dushá pustĭ´kh karmánov[31].

_Von Visin._

HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS.

Tám, tam sætóvat’ mnæ vés’væk moi! górestnii mráchnii
Kázhdĭi medlénnii den’, kázhduíus úzhasom nóch’[32].

Rimes are either masculine or feminine; the former have the accent on the last syllable, the latter on the penultimate:

Masculine. Feminine.
iskál lobóiu
stál krasóiu
tzár póru
tvár góru[33]

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. Unfortunately, society has few gradations; and there is no influence so unfriendly to improvement, no state of things so hopeless, as that produced by a domestic slavery built upon the habits of ages. In Russia, the next step from absolute dependence is nobility; at least, the intermediate classes are very inconsiderable. 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 information, 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 orders; 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-enlightening. 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 communion with man. No spot is there, whether sacred to science or to virtue, in which the “rich and poor” may “meet together,” equalized though but for a moment, as if the common 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 different ranks are destroyed. The million, uninstructed 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 melioration 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 liberty, 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 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.

I must not, however, be misunderstood. The language of despondency, as to the progressive improvement and ultimate civilization of Russia, would be unwarrantable and insincere. If, in the vassalage which depresses and degrades the most numerous class in that country, we look in vain for any redeeming circumstance, to create or to encourage the expectation of a speedy and considerable change; still there is little fear of active opposition to the progress of truth and knowledge, among the immense majority of the people; that is, among the hereditary slaves. They are an inert, unintellectual mass, who, though they will not probably make sufficient advances, under the present system, to bring about any very perceptible improvement themselves, will certainly be little disposed to take any measures in support of an arbitrary system, or to offer any resistance to those changes whose benign effects they would so speedily feel. But, as far as _they_ are concerned, improvement must follow, rather than lead to, any important melioration. A middle class, as yet neither numerous nor powerful, is withal growing up in Russia; by and by, they will form the link between the oppressor and the oppressed. The pride of the first will be brought down; the ambition of the last will be excited. Bosoms will begin to glow with hope and ardor, which are now frozen beneath the wintry touch of bondage; and Russia, full as she is of the materials out of which great minds are formed, may yet perhaps take her stand in intellectual eminence among the nations of Europe, at no distant period.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

I bore you 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] So an anonymous Russian poet:

Russia and Russia’s strength lay hid in dreary night;
God said “Let Peter be!” and then they burst to light.

[2] or Broken Nose.

[3] Under the engravings of Lomonosov an eulogium is sometimes 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.”
And Russia’s bosom heaved with holy glow--
“My Lomonosov! Pindar lives in thee!”

[4] The history of this extraordinary man may be found at length in Coxe’s Travels, ii. 366-393.

[5] I do not feel myself qualified to give an opinion on the present state of the Russian Stage: but the translations represented there from the French and German drama are of acknowledged merit; and many original pieces have been of late produced, of which their literary men speak with great delight and even enthusiasm. Ozerov is, I imagine, the most eminent of their tragic poets.

[6] Especially in his _Puteshestvennik_ (or Traveller).

[7] The German translation is faithful, but heavy and ill-written. 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 Karamsin is held, I may mention that I learned at Petersburg, that several thousand copies of this voluminous work were distributed in a few weeks; and it was said, the author received fifty thousand rubles for the copy-right of the second edition.

[8] The merits of Shakespeare were never fully recognised till he was clad in garments something like his own. There is generally no idea in this country of the 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 effect of a translation made in conformity to what are called the prejudices, or the habits of a people, let him read the Hamlet of Moratin; a man confessedly of extraordinary talent; an original dramatic writer of most distinguished success; and who has preserved a general faithfulness to the sense of his author, even in this translation: let him compare this, or any of the plays of Le Tourneur, or the choicest passages of Ducis, with ten lines taken at random from Voss, or Schlegel, and the argument will be fully understood.

[9] It is a remarkable fact, that the first Russian Grammar ever published was published in England. It was entitled H. W. Ludolfi _Grammatica Russica, quæ continet et manuductionem quandam ad Grammaticam Sclavonicam_. Oxon. 1696.

[10] _Rapports entre les Langues Russe et Sans-crite._

[11] I have adopted _zh_ to convey the sound of this letter, though it is sometimes rendered by j; it is nearly equivalent to the French _j_, as in _jardin_, _jaune_; or to s and z in the English words, measure, vision, azure.

[12] A strong guttural; the Greek χ.

[13] This is the letter which disfigures Russian words so much when written in Roman characters. “I defend,” which 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--_saschtschischtschaju_. Its exact sound may be produced by connecting together the two last syllables of the words establi_sht-ch_urch.

[14] The _shibboleth_ of the Russian alphabet. It is hardly ever well pronounced by foreigners. It is a deep, indistinct articulation, something like _i_ in _bill_.

[15] A mere expletive; and yet so common that Schlözer says, to abandon it would diminish the trouble and expense of writing 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.

[16] This letter, which is also a terminal, gives to the consonant that precedes it the sound which the French call _mouillé_, as in _ai_ll_e_, _a_gn_eau_; like _gn_ or _gl_ in Italian; in Spanish the _ñ_ or _ll_. I have adopted an apostrophe ’ when it is introduced.

[17] The close _e_ of the French.

[18] The English _u_, as in union, universe, always pronounced _iu_.

[19] Is of modern introduction, and is used principally in the beginning of words of foreign origin, as Edinburgh, Etymology.

[20] The first of these is used before a consonant, the latter before a vowel.

[21] С is the sharp s or ss, as in lass: З the soft single s, as usually pronounced in the middle of words; _e.g._ muse.

[22] H, where it occurs in foreign words, is rendered by Г, _g_.

[23] C, is in fact an expletive in all languages.

[24] X, is always written ks, _v. g._ Aleksandr (Alexander).

[25] F, is conveyed usually by the Ф (ph), sometimes by the В (v).

[26] The Germans use their W for the Russian В, which latter is in fact the English _v_. This letter might in English, as in Russian, conveniently stand in the alphabet next to B. It is a second B, a letter which in all times has been constantly confounded with it. In Spanish the two letters are used almost indifferently.

[27]

Thou my sweet spirit,
Beautiful maiden!
Thou my fair empress,
Queen of my bosom!

[28]

Deeply sighs the little wood-dove,
Deeply sighs he day and night;
His beloved heart-companion
Far away has wing’d her flight.

[29]

But law’s imposing fetters
My burning love restrain:
Yet who, O heart! could ever
O’er thee a victory gain?

[30]

Beasts of the field never labour,
Birds of the forest repose;
Man, neither one nor the other,
Man is appointed to toil.

[31]

Thou godlike metal gold! that mov’st the very statues,
And to an empty purse canst give a living spirit.

[32]

There, there do I wear out life’s pilgrimage, sorrowing and dreary,
While the day in its misery rolls, and the terrible night.

[33] The best Russian Grammar I have met with is Tappe’s _Theoretisch-praktische Russische Sprachlehre_. I have availed myself of it for many of the preceding observations.

_RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY._

DERZHAVIN.

GOD[1].

O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide;
Unchanged through time’s all-devastating flight;
Thou only God! There is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Three in 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[2]!

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.

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[3].

A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command;
All 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 _I_ then? Heaven’s unnumber’d host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and array’d
In all the glory of sublimest thought;
Is but an atom in the balance weigh’d
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;
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, fashion’d by Thy hand!
I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,
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? 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
Fill’d 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.

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;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

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 with 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,
Mows 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, so our days
And years are lost in deep eternity;
Cities and empires vandal death decays.

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.
Here is thy dust! Thy spirit is not here!
_Where_ is it? There. _Where_ there? ’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 cover’d 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 with trophies such as these.

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 laugh’d 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!
And joy’s and sorrow’s sound will move us not.
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!
Life was not given for ages to endure,
But virtue on death’s bosom finds her rest;
And know--a spirit order’d well and pure,
May make life’s sorrows and life’s changes blest.

THE WATERFALL.

Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright,
Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall
Pours 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 grove. But list! the hum
Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound,
Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come
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 stands
Listening--not fearful, for he nothing fears:
His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands,
Like bristles o’er him his course 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
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 rushing madly 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:
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:
Into its deep abyss--devouring all--
Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall.

Aye! they must fall! see that unconquered 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[4].

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[5].

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;
’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.
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[6].

He slumber’d; glorious were his hero-dreams!
And wondrous visions floated round his eye:
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;
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.

Then like a Magus in his dark retreat
He calls his spirits round him; gathering those
And scattering these, with prudence infinite,
Thro’ valleys, plains, and mountains; then he throws
O’er all a mantle of omnipotence,
While the storm bursts with furious vehemence.

The eagle’s daring, and the crescent’s pride,
There, by the ebony and the amber sea[7],
He humbles; and, by the evening’s golden side[8],
Subdues the golden fleece and Kolkhidi.
A thousand trophies of victorious war
Redeem the losses of the snowy tzar[9]:

Like the vermilion ray on morning’s wings,
His triumphs o’er admiring nations beam:
Emperors and empires, heroes, kingdoms, kings,
Unite to praise, unite to honour him,
And raise above his glory-circled head
A laurelled, time-enduring pyramid.

His name, his deeds through hurrying years appear
Bright as the sun-beams 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;
The wild beasts’ roaring from their distant lair,
And shadowy spirits fill the troubled air.

The oaks are shivered by the maddened storm;
Armies 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[10].

A winged woman, clad in sable weeds,
Her long hair scattered by the winds, was there,
Like one with dreadful, deathful 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.

See on her casque the frowning eagle rest,
Grasping the fearful 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 Ægis 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;
’Twas 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!
So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth,
Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all,
While hurrying thus sublimely from thy 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, rolling 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 as it goes.

To the wild mountain let the wanderer come,
And, resting on the turf, look round and see,
With sadden’d eye, the green and grassy tomb,
And hear its monitory language: he--
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; starry glories gleam
Around him, and his glancing 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[11] favourite? Wert thou he that trod
The Muse’s temple--thou, 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;
Taught him the very elements to subdue,
In burning Ochakov 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
Play’d 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:
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[12],
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.

Thy laurel crown is faded in its pride:
Thy sparkling _Bulava_[13] 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
Of Maro wept Macænas’ fate again[14].

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:
Proudest of all the proud equestrians he--
He fell:--in death’s dull, dark obscurity.

O! what is human glory, 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.
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 th’ Euxine’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,
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.

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:
Ochakov pours anew her sanguine flood,
And terror seems to freeze that tide of blood.

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,
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 mountain’s side; the old man gray
Hangs o’er the monument in secret gloom,
And reads, “Potemkin’s consecrated tomb!”

Manes of Alcibiades! so low,
That even 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;
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
And virtue your devotion, let your sword
Be bared alone at wisdom’s sacred word.