Chapter II: Part 2

Hail! Nestor Benningsen, to thee!
Nought can thy mind inveigle;
Hero and sage--to enemy
A serpent and an eagle.
And hail! Woronzov! young and gay,
Though ripen’d by discretion.
And Tormassov! in battles gray,
The flying foe’s oppression.
And Baggovuth[7], with heart of mail,
Waving his sabre o’er ye.
Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail!
Our country’s pride and glory!

WARRIORS.

Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail!
Our country’s pride and glory!

MINSTREL.

Now, brothers! hallow those who died,
Those from the strife departed;
Their place is vacant by our side,
Before us they have started.
No more shall they disperse the foe,
Or hear the battle’s thunder;
Their hearts no more with rapture glow--
They sleep in silence under.
Their sword, their shield, are on the ground,
Where damp and rust shall eat them;
Their proud war-horses wander round,
Without a friend to greet them.

O Kulinev! the brave, the strong!
Upon thy shield reclining,
Thou diedst amidst the battle throng,
While thy bright sword was shining.
Thou diedst e’en where thy childhood pass’d[8]
In happiest visions o’er thee;
And thou hast made thy grave at last
Where first thy cradle bore thee:
And sure thy latest sigh was blest,
For faith’s best hopes thou keepedst;
That last sigh sought thy mother’s breast--
Reach’d heaven--and then thou sleepedst.

And where, Kutaissov![9] tell us where
Thou in thy bloom alightest?
His heart, his countenance were clear
As virtue when ’tis brightest;
He threw him in the battle ring--
Death dropt its mantle o’er him:
He touch’d the sweet harp’s sweetest string;
Let every string deplore him!
His steed approaches, dyed with gore--
Where is the hand to guide her?
His shield is there, blood-clotted o’er--
The shield--but not the rider.

Where are thy ashes, in what vale,
What unknown cavern hidden?
For they are sought o’er hill and dale
By a heart-broken maiden.
There lovelier shines the morning dew,
The sun is brighter glowing;
The breezes they are gentler too,
More fair the flowrets blowing!
And angel forms at midnight come,
When mortal eyes are sleeping;
Their silent watch around thy tomb
In mild devotion keeping.

And thou, Bagration![10] tears were shed,
And prayers for thee ascended:--
’Twas all in vain, for thou art dead--
Thy hero-race is ended.
From rank to rank our warriors sigh’d,
‘God’s mercy shall restore him!’
And oft our foes, despairing, cried,
‘We yet shall fly before him!’
Nay! nay! that noble soul is gone,
That generous heart is riven;
To join Suvorov, he is flown;--
To all the brave in heaven.

Shades of our heroes! ye are blest,
Ye roam in Eden’s gardens,
Where time’s departed chieftains rest,
And angels are the wardens.
Your memory still has left its blaze,
Its holy beamings reach us;
A light which flows to distant days,
How brave men died to teach us.
Your names still mount above your graves,
Your glories we inherit;
And every unfurl’d flag that waves
Is pregnant with your spirit.

WARRIORS.

Your names still soar above your graves,
Your glories we inherit;
And every unfurl’d flag that waves
Is pregnant with your spirit.

MINSTREL.

One glass to vengeance! In the fray
‘Heaven for the right!’ our voices,
And ‘death or victory!’ proudly say;
And victory’s self rejoices.
O count not on your numbers, foe!
In vain ye boast your numbers;
Our march is like the torrent’s flow,
Which never, never slumbers.
We have no treasures, but we bring
Our arrows and our lances,
And round us desolation fling--
And death is in our glances.

The Robber! he had spread his power
Around our Moskva’s borders;
And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower
He issued forth his orders.
‘I trample on the base-born clay,
‘Which folly’s pride assembles,
‘And prince and subject both obey.’
Insulting one!--he trembles.
For vengeance wakes her from her rest,
And arms her with her torches;
Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast,
And drives him from our porches.

Now bring thy slavish princes, now,
To our ice-girded nation;
And lead them o’er our paths of snow
To horror and starvation.
Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed,
And close our country’s portals--
O see! he strews the land with dead,
With piles of frozen mortals.
Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own--
God’s vengeance, wretch! is near thee.

WARRIORS.

Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own--
And God’s revenge is near thee!

MINSTREL.

One glass to friendship’s glory lend,
That makes all sorrows lighter--
O happy he who owns a friend!
Heaven has no blessing brighter.
Our joys to swell, our griefs to share,
While by life’s storms we’re driven,
Our conscience to direct us here,
Our friendly staff for heaven.
O be _the sacred bond_[11] our guide,
Our law, and our allegiance!
’Tis by our life-blood sanctified,
And we have sworn obedience.

WARRIORS.

O be _the sacred bond_ our guide,
Our law, and our allegiance!
’Tis by our life-blood sanctified,
And we have sworn obedience.

MINSTREL.

And _this_ to Love!--and break it too--
Its flame shines ever purely!
For love’s sweet smile, and glory’s glow,
They are twin-sisters surely.
For he whom Heaven has train’d and taught,
By love’s soft step attended,
Whose thought still meets another’s thought,
While heart with heart is blended--
He is the hero--doubt or fear
Ne’er enter in his bosom--
For doth he not the garland wear
Of which love wreathed the blossom?

O love! thou art our morning star;
How oft our steps thou meetest!
Thy gay light glances, bright and far--
Thy songs of all are sweetest:
Thy breath oft waves our banners high,
And to the fight thou guidest;
Thou smilest on our victory,
And o’er our dreams presidest.
Look, foeman! on our battle shield,
Our hearts’ love was the giver;
’Twas she who wrote upon its field,
‘Thine--even in death--for ever!’

Fond dreams, which fancy clads in all
The beauties love can borrow!
She sits behind yon garden wall
Communing with her sorrow.
Her plaints, her prayers, to heaven ascend,
To thee her thoughts are flying--
Now tears, now smiles, embalm her friend,
‘Ah! perhaps my friend is dying!
When shall I hear his accents--when
Will fly these days so dreary?
O dawn, sweet morn of joy, again,
For I am well nigh weary.’

O friends! it is a pride to die
For those whose faith is plighted;
Their love is ever hovering nigh,
And we may die delighted.
Their name upon our lips shall hang,
While the death-wound is burning;--
And it shall soothe the parting pang,
While to earth’s bosom turning.
The memory of the maid we love
Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten,
And seek with us the world above,
Its mansions to enlighten.

WARRIORS.

The memory of the maid we love
Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten--
We’ll bear it to the world above,
Its mansions to enlighten.

MINSTREL.

Now to the Muse the red-grape press--
The Muse, whose voice of thunder
Gives courage, energy, success,
And tears fear’s chains asunder:--
The arrows fly--and young and old
With shield and sabre arm them--
Midst the death-shower they throw them bold,
For nothing can alarm them.
The minstrel’s song has touch’d their soul,
And valour’s tears are breaking,
While hoary age bursts time’s control,
And youthful strength is waking.

Pride of the elder time, Bojan![12]
Whose harp, though lost to story,
Led on the brave Sclavonian
With hymns of praise and glory!
Thy songs prophetic did proclaim
Peter the Great, the glorious:
Petrov sang Saidunaisky’s name:
Derzhavin’s lyre victorious
Its tones of joy and music flung,
Forest of Kama, o’er thee:
Suvorov, thee Derzhavin sung,
Hero of poet worthy.

Old man! O could we hear again
Thy swan-like tones to bless us!
Thou sangst not idle glory’s strain,
But vengeance to redress us.
And not for conquest, not for fame,
Thy lyre of passion pleaded--
’Twas struggling for an unstain’d name,
Revenge for rights invaded.
Sing, swan! thy song the chain will break
Which many a land surrounded;
And Slavery’s threatenings wax them weak
Where thy proud notes are sounded.

O honour then the Muses’ sons!
And I--though mean and lowly:--
Would that my lyre’s awaken’d tones
Were all inspired and holy!
In the deep valley’s loneliness
That humble lyre was shrouded:
I heard a voice, ‘To battle press!’
And to the combat crowded.
Farewell, then, music--joy, farewell!
I sped me to the battle:
My song--the trumpets’ piercing swell;
My choir--the cannons’ rattle.

Yet will I sing the Robber’s fall,
And your bright deeds, elated;
For even now some whizzing ball
Perchance with death is fated.
But could my dying hour disperse
The dreams I loved to cherish?
And crush the spirit of my verse
With my faint name to perish?
The robber to his fame hath built
A pile of bloodstain’d iron;
And there your glory and his guilt
Time’s records shall environ.

WARRIORS.

Then welcome be the sons of song,
Who bid our victories blossom;
And as our fathers pass along
With triumph fills their bosom.

MINSTREL.

Your glasses:--To the God of Might,
Bend on your knees before him:
He led you to the glorious fight,
And saved you--now adore him!
The shield of virtue is his rod,
He saves the poor and lowly;
The rock of ages is our God--
He scathes the proud one’s folly.
Look to the glorious realms above,
Where not a tear e’er started;
And hear from thence that voice of love,
‘My children! be strong hearted!’

O immortality! thou sea
Of silence--peaceful portal!
How happy who is launch’d on thee,
And straight becomes immortal!
O happy they who fall in fight!
For those they leave behind them
Seek through a long and gloomy night
The grave that might have shrined them.
The son of battle breaks the bond
Which to the vain world ties him;
Soars to a brighter world beyond,
Where misery never tries him.

But we?--O let us trust in God,
Whate’er our portion given,
To lead us through life’s darksome road
To happiness and heaven:
Obedient to his holy will,
Scattering all sin before us;
And gently moving forward still,
Till darkness gathers o’er us.
If low our lot--a courage free;
If high--no scornful blindness;
In strength and power--simplicity;
And universal kindness.

Ready obedience where ’tis due--
Our oaths--a sacred token!
To love unshaken, fervent, true,
And friendship’s pledge--unbroken.
To those who sink--a ready hand,
And comfort to the mourning;
For tyrants--valour to withstand,
For treachery--hate and scorning.
The blaze of truth to shame a lie;
All honest faith--befriended;
And in death’s fight--calm bravery,
And peace--when all is ended.

O God of might! be thou our shield,
Our squadrons lead and rally!
Rider and horse to thee must yield,
And perish in the valley.
O God! in our behalf appear--
Our foemen’s ranks be broken;
Come, day of vengeance, dark and drear!
And lo! the Lord has spoken.
I saw him numerous as the sand
Spread over hills and plains there;
He waved his bright and murderous brand,
And now--no trace remains there.

WARRIORS.

I saw him numerous as the sand
Spread over hills and plains there;
He waved his bright and murderous brand,
And now--no trace remains there.

MINSTREL.

But look! the clouds are brightening now,
The daylight is appearing;
See! o’er the distant mountain’s brow
The morning star uprearing.
The twilight breaks--the vapours damp
The hills are now surrounding;
And lo! the slumber-girded camp,
And morning-music sounding.
But soon--but soon--as hours return,
That band so calmly sleeping,
Shall fate--her hand is on the urn--
Shall fate prepare for weeping!

O dawn thee not--let darkness try
Thy waking beams to smother!
For ah! to-day shall many an eye
Mourn o’er a perish’d brother.
Vain prayer--along the mountain’s height
I hear the thunder roaring;
Shouts from the plain announce the fight,
The sun tow’rds heaven is soaring:
The war-steeds rage and foam--anon
The shock of arms engaging--
The chieftain leads his soldiers on,
And hearts with fire are raging.

This is no time for wine nor song!
Come, to the battle hurry!
With naked sabre join the song,
For death or triumph’s glory!
Yes! ye who love us far away,
Farewell! and if for ever,
Preserve the memory of the day,
And O forget us never!
Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove--
Beloved, one sacred greeting:
Here--tender and undying love,
There--an eternal meeting!

WARRIORS.

Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove--
Beloved, one sacred greeting:
Here--tender and undying love,
There--an eternal meeting!

CATHERINE[13].

_SVÆTLANA._

St. Silvester’s evening hour
Calls the maidens round:
Shoes to throw behind the door,
Delve the snowy ground.
Peep behind the window there,
Burning wax to pour;
And the corn for chanticleer
Reckon three times o’er.
In the water-fountain fling
Solemnly the golden ring,
Earrings too of gold;
Kerchief white must cover them
While we are chanting over them
Magic songs of old.

Feebly through the vapours shine
Moonbeams on the hill;
Silently sat Catherine,
Sorrowful and still.
‘Maiden, why so pensive? we
Fain thy voice would hear--
Come and join our revelry!
Take the ring, thou dear!
Sing ‘Make haste and melt, and bring,
‘Goldsmith! come with golden ring,
‘Golden wreath for Kate!
‘Ring to deck her hand of snow,
‘Wreath to bloom upon her brow
‘At the altar-gate.’

I can sing no choral song
While my love’s away;
For my days are sad and long,
Gloomier every day.
Left alone--a year is past--
Not a line to send--
O my life is but a waste,
Sever’d from my friend!
Hast thou then forgotten me?
Tell me, wanderer! can it be?
Where’s thy dwelling--where?
See, I pine ’neath secret smart:
Guardian angel! watch my heart--
Listen to my prayer!

Cover’d with a napkin white,
Stood a table there;
Where a mirror, clear and bright,
Shone amidst the glare.
Vacant seats for two were placed--
‘Look within, O look!
’Tis the hour of spirits--haste!
Read Fate’s opening book:
To the mirror turn thy eye,
And the door shall silently
Open--List! ’tis he!
Gently shall thy lover glide,
Seat him by his maiden’s side,
And shall sup with thee.’

Cath’rine sat before the glass--
All alone was she,
Watching all the shades that pass,
Shuddering inwardly.
But the glass is dark and drear,
Still as death the room;
Scarce a fading taper there
Flitted midst the gloom.
O how fear her bosom shook!
Backwards then she dared not look!
Dread had dimm’d her sight:
And the dying tapers’ noise,
And the cricket’s chirping voice,
Cried--’tis middle-night!

Breathless terror chill’d her o’er,
And she shades her brow:--
List! a knock is at the door,
And it opens now:
To the mirror then she turn’d,
Stupefied with fear;
Their two brilliant eyeballs burn’d,
Ever bent on her.
Horror heaved her breast, when lo!
Gentle accents, sweet and slow,
Glided on her ear:
‘All thy wishes are fulfill’d--
All thy spirit’s sighs be still’d--
’Tis thy lover, dear!’

Cath’rine look’d--her lover’s arms
Were around her thrown:
‘Maiden! banish all alarms,
We are ever one!
Come! the priest is waiting now,
Life with life to blend;
Torches in the chapel glow,
Bridal songs ascend.’
Cath’rine smiled--her lover led--
O’er the snow-clad court they sped,
And the portals gain;
There a ready sledge they found--
Two fleet coursers stamp the ground,
Struggling with the rein.

Onwards! like the winds they go,
When the storm awakes;
Scattering round them clouds of snow,
While the pathway shakes.
All was dark and wild as night,
Terrible, and new:
Mist-wreaths dimm’d the pale moon’s light,
Plains were drench’d in dew.
Fear again possess’d the maid,
And in gentlest tones she said,
‘Speak--my lover true!’
He was silent then--but soon
Turn’d him to the wintry moon,--
Pale and paler grew.

Through the snow--a mountain’s height--
Next the wild steeds pass’d;
And a church appear’d in sight,
’Midst a gloomy waste:
Then a whirlwind burst the door--
Men are there who mourn;
Clouds of incense rolling o’er,
Waxen tapers burn.
Lo! a black sepulchral shroud--
‘Dust to dust!’ the priest aloud
Chants--the horses flew
Tow’rds the door--her agony
Rose--he spoke no word--but he
Pale and paler grew.

Clouds of snow ascend again--
Lo! the coursers fly;
And a raven on the plain
Croaks, and passes by;
’Twas an awful, ominous sound!
And the moonlight wanes;
Darkness wraps the desert round
O’er the steaming manes.
See! a glimmering light is there,
And upon the heather bare
Stands a humble shed.
Swifter--swifter flew the car,
Whirl’d the snow around it far,
But no farther sped.

At the door they stopp’d anon,
There--a moment stood:--
Steeds--sledge--bridegroom--all are gone:
All is solitude.
Catherine on the waste was left,
Midst dense clouds of snow;
Of her lover now bereft,
To commune with woe:
But she hears a footstep now,
Turns, and sees a taper glow;
Crosses her, and stalks
Trembling to the door--and knocks:--
Of itself the door unlocks--
In the maiden walks.

There, upon a winding sheet,
Lay a mortal bier;
Christ’s bright image at its feet
Shone resplendent there.
Whither--whither art thou come,
Maiden, all unblest?
Thou hast sought a wretched home,
Art a hapless guest!
Catherine to the image flies,
Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes,
Bends her down and weeps;
Presses to her breast the cross--
Thoughts of heaven her soul engross,
And she silence keeps.

All is still!--The storm is hush’d,
Faint the tapers beam,
Light across the chamber rush’d--
Momentary gleam:--
All is wrapt in silence deep
As when visions come.
List! what gentle rustlings sweep
Through the hallow’d room:
Lo! a dove of silvery white,
Soft and still, with eyes of light,
Tow’rds the mourner springs:
For a moment hovers there,
Then upon her bosom fair
Flaps his beauteous wings.

Silence reign’d again.--Can all,
All illusion be?
Lo! the corpse beneath the pall
Shudders fearfully:
Bursts the mantling bier of death,
Throws his shroudings by:
On his brow he wore a wreath,
Frozen was his eye:
From his lips a murmur breaks,
With his hand a sign he makes,
Pointing to the maid:
Trembling she--she dared not move--
But the bright and silver dove
On her bosom play’d.

Fann’d her with its gentle wing:--
To the dead man’s breast
Then she saw her sweet dove spring--
There it seem’d to rest.
Heaved that icy corpse a sigh,
As in dark despair,
Gnash’d his teeth in agony,
Turn’d his eyes on her.
Paler wax’d those lips so pale;
And the fix’d eye told the tale
That life’s film was broke.
Catherine! lift thy drooping head!
All is o’er--thy lover’s dead!--
God!----and she awoke.

Where?--within the self-same room
Where the mirror stood:--
Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom
With its golden flood;
Chanticleer had flapp’d his wings,
Sung his early song:
All is bright--the matin rings--
O thy dream was long!
Long indeed, and dreadful too;
And my spirit long shall rue
The dread prophecy!
Tell me, Future’s misty night,
Shall my fate be dark or bright,
Bliss or misery?

Catherine in the window sat,
Sorrowful and still:
Tell me--tell me what is _that_?
Mist-cloud on the hill?
In the sunbeams shines the snow;
Leaps the frozen dew:
List! I hear the bells below,
And the horses too.
Lo! they come--the sledge is near--
Now the Isvoshchik’s voice I hear--
They have pass’d the grove:--
Fling the gates wide open--fling--
Who’s the guest the coursers bring?
Who?--’Tis thou, my love!

Catherine, tell me now! _The dream_--
Is the dream forgot?
Youths may faithful be--who seem
Faithless--may they not?
When the light of love hath lent
Brightness to his eye;
When his lips are eloquent;--
Timid maid! reply!
Open now the temple-gate,
Spring on wings of joy elate,
Truth, we honour thee!
Pour the glass, and join the hymn,
Ne’er may days of darkness dim
Youth’s fidelity.

Thou dost smile, sweet maid! but deem,
Deem it worth a thought;
For that memorable dream
Stores of wisdom brought.
Thou dost smile again--but know,
It had lessons holy:
Fame, it told thee, was but--show;
Worldly wisdom--folly.
This my song was meant to say,
Hope and trust, should guide our way--
Maid! there’s no mistaking:
This the genuine moral seems,
Miseries--are only dreams,
Joy--is the awaking.

O my Cath’rine! never dwell
On that dream of gloom;
Heaven! build up her citadel,
There may grief ne’er come;
Not a cloud her joys o’ershade,
Not a joy decay;
Holy is that gentle maid
As the light of day.
Ne’er be it obscur’d by woe,
Let her days of comfort flow
Like a forest river;
And let joy, with smiles serene,
Be as it hath ever been,
Her bright guide for ever.

THEON AND ÆSCHINES.

To his country’s penates wends Æschines home,
To the mist-cover’d land of Alpheus;
He long had sought happiness o’er the wide world,
But happiness fled--like a shadow.

And Bacchus and Venus, and pleasure and fame,
His heart had consumed--not contented;
The blossom of life had decay’d like his soul,
And hope had been banish’d by sadness.

The stream of the wavy Alpheus appears,
Alpheus, with flower-bedeck’d borders,
And wakes all the thoughts of the days hurried by,
And of youth-tide, for ever departed!

All the banks are as fair, all the fields are as bright,
And the sky smiles delighted above him;
But where is that hope which shed o’er them a ray,
A ray of ineffable beauty?

The dwelling of Theon now Æschines seeks;--
He dwelt in a peace-girded cottage;
His wishes all bounded, and moderate his hopes--
He dwelt on the shores of Alpheus.

’Twas just where Alpheus springs into the sea,
With olive trees deck’d and plantanas,
That Æschines saw a humble abode--
It was the mean dwelling of Theon.

In the hot arch of Heaven the day-tide declined,
The calm stream of waters was glowing;
A rosy smile play’d round the humble abode,
Where the myrtles of fragrance were blooming.

A white grave of marble, with myrtle-wreaths hung,
Appears on a gentle mound rising;
Where roses of fragrance, and jasmin’s pale flowers,
Their branches entwined, interblended.

Theon sat near his hut;--he was lost in deep thought,
While he look’d on the purple-tinged billow;
Then suddenly turn’d on his Æschines--saw,
And remember’d his youthful companion.

‘To Zeus--Preserver! be honour and praise!
Again dost thou see thy penates!’
Cried Theon--while rapture shone bright in his eye,
As he Æschines press’d to his bosom.

And with glances look’d through him again and again,
His visage was troubled and gloomy:
And Æschines mournfully gazed on his friend,
His gaze it was calm, but was mournful.

‘O Theon! when first I abandon’d thee here,
Hope painted me visions of pleasure;
Far different my fate from my dreams--I have found
That hope is a faithless deceiver.

‘And tell me, my Theon, has such been thy fate,
For such doth thy visage betoken?
Have sorrow and sadness intruded on thee,
And thy peaceful, domestic penates?’

Theon groan’d in his spirit, and look’d to the grave,
‘These, these are the silent recorders,
If God lent us life to be wasted in joy--
Ah! life is the sister of sorrow.

‘O no! I complain not of Zeus’ decrees,
For life and the world beam with beauty;
But bliss that is fleeting, and dreams that are vain,
I chase not for earthly enjoyment.

‘What time can create, and what time can destroy,
Why call we our own;--it was never;--
’Tis the soul’s own possession, the spirit of love,
The thoughts that sublimely transport us.

‘These, these are true bliss!--Friend, this is no dream,
I, Æschines! loved and was happy;
’Twas love that refined and enraptured my soul--
And that taught me the pleasure of living.

‘Midst twilight sublimest conceptions appear’d,
Creation I saw in its glory,
And felt that my pilgrimage led through the world
To something far brighter above it.

‘Woe is me! for I loved--she is gone--she is gone--
And the bliss is for ever departed,
That dawn’d with such lustre--how vainly it dawn’d!
How gaily--how swiftly it faded!

‘O no! nought erases the track of the past,
In the heart it for ever endureth.
The sorrow of parting!--That, that too is love!--
And the heart loses nought of its treasure.

‘And is not the pang which e’en death leaves behind
A germ which hope, bright and eternal,
Awakes; while the known, but the mist-cover’d land,
Gives back all we loved to our mem’ry.

‘For he who has loved, and loved truly, my friend!
Can never, can never be lonely;
The world when _she_ blossom’d, with _her_ is still fill’d,
Ever present, unchang’d and immortal.

‘Alone I tread onward the path of my doom,
To its boundary sublime ever tending;
She led me--she leads me--together we toil,
’Tis the bond which not death could dissever.

‘Thoughts pure and sublime throw a charm over life!
And with ecstasy oft I look round me
On the fair face of earth, that is smiling with good,
On the wonderful, glorious creation.

‘And peaceful I turn from the markstone of death
To the visions which hail me immortal;
And hope lights with glory the dulness of earth,
As Aurora the canopied heaven.

‘’Tis hope that exalts me far, far above fate,
And hallows this earthly existence;
And the thought, the proud thought I am _man_, swells my breast
With gratitude, triumph, and glory.

‘This silent, this mystical gravestone, to me,
My friend! is a pledge and a token,
That the being which faith has depictured shall dawn
As sure as the past is departed.

‘This grave is the door--the lock’d door of delight--
Will it open?--I hope, and expect it:
On _that_ side the pris’ner is waiting, who here
For a moment was seen--and departed.

‘O friend! thou pursuest a false, fleeting good,
Thou snatchest the joy of a moment,
Thou losest the bliss that is sure and sublime,
And a life that is priceless despisest.

‘This feeling of gloom, it benightens the earth--
Give your hand!--In the bosom of friendship
Let the world, and let nature be lovely again,
For, believe me, the earth is most lovely.

‘When life was conferr’d, _all_, _all_ was conferr’d--
’Tis the path, ’tis the promise of greatness;
And sorrow and joy, they are means to that end--
Praise Zeus--O praise the Creator!’

THE BARD.

Through the dark wood seest thou that thorn-crown’d heap,
That o’er the lingering rivulet seems to rest;
Where the still stream glides by, as if in sleep,
And scarce a leaf is by the zephyr prest:
There hangs a harp--a garland, see!
That heap--it is a minstrel’s bed:
There are his ashes scattered--
Bard! woe is thee!

His soul was lovely--infant purity
Dwelt in his heart--a fleeting pilgrim, driven
By life’s first gales o’er seas of misery,
Sighing and longing for death’s silent haven--
That haven reach’d he speedily:
He sleeps death’s sleep--so dark, so dull--
His life was short, but sorrowful--
Bard! woe is thee!

He sang the song of friendship loud and sweet--
But ah! the friend is gone;--his holy strain
Breathed of pure love--’twas sad, though exquisite,
For he knew nought of love but love’s deep pain!
All slumbers now--all--silently,
Young bard! with thee--thy music’s breath
Is still--still’d by the frown of death:--
Bard! woe is thee!

Here, by this shrine, when the tir’d sun was setting
In melancholy brightness, thus he pour’d
His farewell hymn, ‘Fair world! thy charms forgetting,
‘I leave thee, and for ever!--I adored
‘A wild dream’s shade--an ecstasy!
‘’Tis past!--Thou lyre! be still--my hand
‘Is chill’d--I seek a brighter land:--
‘Bard! woe is thee!

‘That wild dream fled--what else is left?--the sky
‘O’erclouded--the storm raging--an abyss
‘Yawning around--hopes that just smile, and fly
‘To darkness--solid woes, and shadowy bliss.
‘Haven of peace! for me, for me
‘Prepare thy welcome, grave, whose road,
‘Though misty, leads to joy’s abode!
‘Bard! woe is thee!’

Yes! he is fled--that magic harp is still,
His footstep-traces now are worn away;
And sorrow dwells on stream, and vale, and hill--
And silence, save when thoughtless zephyrs play
With the dried wreath that carelessly
Hangs--or in twilight’s feeble ray
Some spirit bids the harp-strings say,
Bard! woe is thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Zhukovsky accompanied the Russian army from Moscow. He wrote this piece just before the battle on the Tarutina.

[2] These words are attributed by the old Russian historians to the great Duke Svatoslav Sgorevich, and are said to have led to one of his most brilliant victories over the Greeks. “Let us not shame our Russian land--Let our bones lie here--There is no disgrace in dying!”

[3] Dmitrij Ivanovich (of the Don), the saviour of his country from Tartarian slavery. Ever since the unfortunate battle of Kalka (1223), the hopes of redemption seemed feeble and distant. He assembled his troops, and defeated the countless hosts of Mamai on the shores of the Don.

[4] Mazeppa.

[5] Prince Smolensko.

[6] Before the battle of Borodino an eagle hovered round his head, and was observed by the whole army, who set up a general shout of joy.

[7] Baggovuth was killed in the battle of the Tarutina.

[8] Near Lutzin, where he had passed his boyhood, and where his mother yet lived.

[9] Kutaissov was a young poet of considerable talents: he was killed at the battle of Borodino. His horse was seen wildly galloping about, covered with blood; and his body could not be discovered for a long time.

[10] Bagration received his mortal wound at the battle of Borodino; but it was for a long time expected that he would recover.

[11] Holy Alliance.

[12] Of Bojan little is known. He is supposed to have accompanied the Russians in the dark ages, and to have excited them to valour with his magic lyre.

[13] I have adopted the word Catherine. SVÆTLANA does not easily accommodate itself to our organs of sense.

KARAMSIN.

RAÏSSA.

In the dark night the storm-wind rages,
The gray flash trembles in the sky;
Rolls from the blackening clouds the thunder,
And rattling torrents sweep the wood.

No signs of life, of living beings,
The welcoming roof had shelter’d all,
All but one lost and lonely wanderer--
Raïssa--to the dark night bare.

Despair was seated in her bosom;
The thunder-tempest moved her not;
And even the hurricane’s loud howling
Scarce drown’d Raïssa’s heavy plaints.

Her cheek was like the faded foliage,
Her lip--th’ unwater’d, withering flow’r;
Upon her eye--a veil of darkness,
And fearful were her bosom’s throbs.

There hurried from her snowy bosom,
Which savage, thorny boughs had torn,
Of burning blood a crimson rivulet--
It fell upon the green damp ground.

Above the sea, a granite mountain
Raised proudly its gigantic head;
Raïssa scaled it, wandering lonely
Through clefts and stony pyramids.

The deep raged furiously--the lightning
Frightfully flash’d;--the mountain-waves
Roll’d, lifting up their maddening voices;
And the earth trembled as they spoke.

Raïssa look’d around--was silent:
But soon her tones of sorrow burst,
And mingled with the raging tempest--
‘Lost--lost for ever! Woe is me!

‘Kronīd--Kronīd--O cruel lover!
O whither, whither art thou fled?
Why hast thou left thy own Raïssa
Alone in such a dreadful night?

‘Kronīd--return--return--forgiveness,
Forgetfulness, shall both be thine:
No!--Thou wilt come not to Raïssa--
Why did I know thee--wherefore love?

‘My father and my mother loved me,
And fondest love was their return;
My days roll’d by, on downy pinions,
Midst harmless sports and joyous thoughts.

‘Thou didst approach me like an angel,
And, sighing, these sweet words didst say:
“I love thee--yes! I love--Raïssa!”
My parents’ love I soon forgot.

‘Transported, yet with trembling bosom,
And weeping in that dream of bliss,
Into thy opening arms I threw me,
And gave my heart alone to thee.

‘On thee reposed and dwelt my spirit,
I breathed, I lived for thee alone;
The sun in thy sweet smile was beaming,
Thou wert my present deity.

‘Why, when thy bosom beat with rapture,
Why died I not--in transports then:
Had I not seen thee false and treacherous,
How sweet, how blessed ’twere to die.

‘But ah! while thus securely dreaming
In deepest sleep, another maid
Loved and was loved--and I am banished--
Banished is thy Raïssa now.

‘I thought I lay upon his bosom--
I stretch’d my arms t’ embrace him there--
I but embraced the heedless breezes--
He was already far away.

‘The dream was fled--and I awoke me--
I call’d thee--all was still as death:
I sought thee with strain’d eye--but vainly--
My friend, my friend was no where found.

‘I hurried to a mountain-summit,
I--hapless-spirited! Kronīd
Is fled afar with his Liudmilla!
Then sank I senseless on the earth.

‘And since that miserable moment
My days, my nights in sorrow flow;
I seek thee--every where I call thee--
But never hast thou heard my voice.

‘And now the spirit-worn Raïssa
Calls on thee for the last, last time;--
For peace has left my soul for ever.--
Farewell! and be without me blest!’

So spoke Raïssa--and she threw her
Into the sea. The thunder roar’d:
The heavens announced that she had perish’d
To him that had destroy’d her there.

THE HAVEN.

When the dangerous rocks are past,
When the threatening tempests cease,
O how sweet to rest at last
In a silent port of peace!

Though that port may be unknown,
Though no chart its name may bear,
Brightly beam its lights on _one_--
Blest to find his refuge there.

There he paints the joyous band--
Friends and family--what more?
Bliss!--he cries--thou hallow’d land!
And he springs upon the shore.

Life! thou art the storm--the rock!
Death! the friendly port thou art:--
Haven from the tempest shock,
Welcoming the wanderer’s heart.

Yes! I see from yonder tomb
Promised peace and tranquil rest:
Death! my haven! I shall come,
Soothe me on thy mother-breast.

SONG OF THE GOOD TZAR.

_Pæsnya o dobrom Tzaræ._

Russia had a noble Tzar,
Sovereign honour’d wide and far;
He a father’s love enjoy’d,
He a father’s power employ’d.

And he sought his children’s bliss,
And their happiness was his:
Left for them his golden halls,
Left for them his palace walls.

He, a wanderer for them,
Left his royal diadem:
Staff and knapsack all his treasure;
Toil and danger all his pleasure.

Wherefore hath he journey’d forth,
From his glorious, sceptred north?
Flying pride, and pomp, and power;
Suffering heat, and cold, and shower.

Why?--because this noble king,
Light and truth and bliss might bring,
Spread intelligence, and pour
Knowledge out on Russia’s shore.

Wherefore would this noble king
Light and truth and virtue bring,
Spread intelligence, and pour
Knowledge out on Russia’s shore?

He would guide by wisdom’s ray
All his subjects in their way;
And while beams of glory giving,
Teach them all the arts of living.

O thou noble King and Tzar!
Earth ne’er saw so bright a star--
Tell me, have ye ever found
Such a prince the world around?

TO ----.

Where art thou lingering, tell me, thou fair one?
There where the nightingale wakes her soft music,
In the night’s darkness complaining
From the top boughs of the myrtle?

There, where in solitude murmurs the streamlet,
Gliding along its green borders unnoticed,
Soothing man’s turbulent bosom
Gently to peace and to silence?

There, where the rose in its pride and its glory
Blushes, bedew’d with the tears of the morning,
While with the breezes disporting;
Whispering its thoughts to the zephyrs?

There, where the sun first illumines the mountain--
Heights inaccessible--cloud-fashion’d palace--
Where, in the ages departed,
Spirits and gods had their dwellings?

Oft have I heard thy sweet voice gently speaking,
Oft on thy throne of bright clouds have I seen thee,
Stretch’d out my arms to embrace thee--
Ah!--I had seized but a shadow.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sing in the forest’s leafy night,
Gentle bird--unnoticed sing;
Sing in Luna’s silver light,
Tones of sorrow echoing.
Tell me why my tears are falling
Like a rivulet--tell me why
Memory, when the past recalling,
Blends thee with the days gone by?
Ah! those hallow’d friends I number,
Who upon earth’s peaceful breast
In death’s tomb of silence slumber!
Green moss decks their place of rest.
All their turfs, sweet flowers adorn them,
I am left alone to mourn them--
Still I mourn them--still regret--
Therefore like a rivulet
Flow my tears--with whom shall I
Now thy sweetest strains enjoy?
Who shall greet the spring with me?
Spring is winter--wanting thee.
Now my soul must bow, subdued,
Life has no vicissitude;
All is dark--my heart is weary--
And the world--all waste and dreary.
Tell me, lovely nightingale,
When thy gentle song will fall
On my grave? for O its breath
Is meet melody for death.

DOLGORUKOV.

THE LEGACY.

When time’s vicissitudes are ended
Be this, be this my place of rest;
Here let my bones with earth be blended,
Till sounds the trumpet of the blest.
For here, in common home, are mingled
Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled;
And those whom fortune--fame pass’d by:
All mingled--and all mouldering;--folly
And wisdom--mirth and melancholy--
Slaves--tyrants--all mixt carelessly.

List! ’tis the voice of time--Creation’s
Unmeasured arch repeats the tone;
Look! even like shadows, mighty nations
Are born--flit by us--and are gone!
See! children of a common father,
See stranger-crowds, like vapors gather;
Sires--sons--descendants--come and go:
Sad history! Yet even there the spirit
Some joys may build--some hopes inherit,
And wisdom gather flowers from woe.

There, like a bee-swarm, round the token
Of unveil’d truth, shall sects appear,
And evil’s poisonous sting be broken
In the bright glance of virtue’s spear.
And none shall ask--What dormitory
Was this man’s doom--what robes of glory
Wore he--what garlands crown’d his brow--
Was pomp his slave?--Come, now discover
The heart, the soul--Delusion’s over--
What was his _conduct_?--Answer now!

Where stands yon hill-supported tower,
By Fili, shall I wake again,
Summon’d to meet Almighty Power
In judgment--like my fellow men.
I shall be there--and friends and brothers--
Sisters and children--fathers, mothers,--
With joy that never shall decay;
The soul, substantial blessings beaming,
(All here is shadowy and seeming)
Drinks bliss--no time can sweep away.

Friends, on my brow, that rests when weary,
Erect no proud and pompous pile:
Your monuments are vain and dreary,
Their splendour cannot deck the vile.
A green grave, by no glare attended,
With other dust and ashes blended,
O let my dust and ashes lie;
There, as I sleep, time, never sleeping,
Shall gather ages to his keeping,
For such is nature’s destiny.

My wife, my children shall inherit
All I possess’d--’twas mine--’tis theirs;
For death, that steals the living spirit,
Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs.
Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow,
No garments of the raven borrow;
’Tis idle charge--’tis costly pride.
Be gay, through rain or frosty weather,
Nor gather idle priests together
To chaunt my humble grave beside.

Cry, orphans!--cry, ye poor!--imploring
The everlasting God, that _He_
May save me when I sink--adoring--
Amidst his boundless mercy-sea.
My blessing to my foes be given,
Their curses far from me be driven,
Nor break upon my hallow’d bliss;
God needs no studied words from mortals,
A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals--
He could not err--He taught us this.

No songs, no elegy--death hearkens
To music ne’er though sweet it be:
When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens,
Then let oblivion shadow me.
No verse will soften Hades’ sadness,
No verse can break on Eden’s gladness,
’Tis all parade, and shifting glare:--
A stream--where scatter’d trees are growing,
A secret tear--in silence flowing--
No monument as these so fair.

Such slumber here--their memory flashes
Across my thoughts.--Hail--Sister! hail--
I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes,
And soon shall share thy mournful tale.
Thou hast paid thy earthly debts--’tis ended--
Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended,
The circle of thy being run;
And now in peace thy history closes,
And thy still’d, crumbling frame reposes
Where life’s short, feverish play is done.

I live and toil--my thoughts still follow
The idle world:--my cares pursue
Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow,
And vanities still false though new.
Then fly I earthly joys--I find them
Leave terror-working stings behind them:
‘Beware! beware!’ experience cries;
Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty,
One smile of yonder flattering beauty
Would make me waste even centuries.

BATIUSHKOV.

TO F. F. KOKOSHKIN,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS BRIDE.

Ah! the flower is dead--the beauty is departed--
All is fled we cherished;
Love and Friendship, weep! Weep, Hymen, broken-hearted!
Happiness is perished.

Friendship! thy swift hands, with smiles and joys, array’d her
In her living glory;
Now, with sighs and tears, those trembling hands have laid her
In earth’s dormitory.

Plant the cypress there, the yew’s dark umbrage borrow,
For such shade is meetest;
Scatter wreaths, which youth shall dew with tears of sorrow,
For youth’s tears are sweetest.

All is gloomy round--the gale, while it reposes,
Drops its tone of gladness:
And some shadowy ghost strips all the budding roses--
’Tis the shrine of sadness.

Hymen lingers here--pale, fetter’d, chill’d, despairing,
Bent by grief undying:
See his folded arms, bent eyes--his torch, yet flaring,
On the grave is lying.

THE FAREWELL.

Bent o’er his sabre, torrents starting
From his dim eyes, the bold hussar
Thus greets his cherish’d maid, while parting
For distant fields of war:

‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee!
No anguish can those tears remove;
For, by my troth and beard, I swear thee,
Time shall not change my love.

‘That love shall bloom--a deathless blossom,
My shield in fight--with sword in hand,
And thou, my Lila, in my bosom,
What shall that sword withstand?

‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee!
Those tears can bid no grief depart;
And were I faithless, Maid! I swear thee,
Anguish would tear my heart!

‘Then my good steed would sure betray me,
And falter in the battle-fray,
In peril’s hours refuse t’ obey me--
My stirrup would give way.

‘The sword, my valour’s proudest token,
When grasp’d, like rotten wood would break;
And I should seek thee, spirit-broken,
Death’s paleness on my cheek.’

But the false horseman’s steed obey’d him,
Gentle and eager still;--his sword,
Bright and unbroken, ne’er betray’d him,
Though he broke oath and word.

The tale of love--the tears which shower’d
From Lila’s eye--were all forgot;
The rose-wreath faded--pale--deflower’d:--
Such buds re-blossom not!

That maiden’s breast of peace he rifles;
Then hies him to another’s breast;
Man’s oaths to woman are but--trifles;
And love itself--a jest.

He serves--secures--and then he slights them;
His vows are change--and treachery;
For laughing Cupid’s arrow writes them
Upon the shifting sea.

THE FRIEND’S SHADOW.

_Sunt aliquid manes; letum non omnia finit;
Luridaque evictos effugit umbra rogos._
PROPERTIUS.

To Albion’s misty isle across the waves I sped me:
It look’d as if interr’d beneath a leaden sea,
And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me,
While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody.
The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling,
And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill,
And to the watch the active helmsman calling,
The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still.
All seem’d to rock itself to gentle thought;
Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, look’d forth,
And through the night and through the mist I sought,
I sought the star beloved of my domestic north.
Then into memory melted every feeling--
My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace,
And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing,
Cover’d my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness.
Then dreams with other dreams were blended,
And lo! there stood--was it a dream?--the form
Of that dear friend who his career had ended
Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm.
He stood upon the mist, and smiled--his face,
Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining
Like the young spring in gaiety and grace,
Even as an angel from high heaven declining:--
‘Comrade of better time! and is it thou?
And is it thou?’ I cried, ‘thou hero bright!
Did I not in the fury of the fight
Attend thee--and when thou hadst fallen below
Make thy new grave--and on a neighbouring tree
Write with my sword thy feats of bravery,
And follow’d thy cold ashes to their bed,
And hallow’d it with prayers, and with tears watered?
Speak, unforgotten one! speak! was it a deceit?
Is all that’s past a dream--a cheating dream?
A dream that corpse--a dream that grave--that sheet
Wrapt round thee--were they not--did they but _seem_?
O but one word! let that tongue’s melody
Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear:
O unforgotten one! stretch out to me
Thy old right hand of friendship--stretch it here.’
I sprung towards him--Oh! the mists had dimm’d my eye--
He vanish’d like a shade--a lock of airy smoke--
Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky,
And I, arousing from my dream, awoke.
Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping;
The very winds--the very waves, at rest;
And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping;
The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast.
But I was troubled--peace had left my soul--
I stretch’d my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see--
I called on him--whom I could not control--
On thee--belov’d one! best of friends! on thee!

LOVE IN A BOAT.

’Tis a calm and silent even,
Luna rests upon the sea;
See! the impelling breeze has driven,
Driven a little bark to me.

What a lovely child is seated
At the helm--a trembling child!
‘Thou wilt perish, boy ill-fated!
Whelm’d among the surges wild.’

‘Help me! help me! gentle stranger!
All my strength, alas! is gone:
Take the helm--conduct the ranger
To some harbour of thy own.’

Pity’s warmth, that never freezes,
Bid me seize the helm:--we sped,
Wafted by awakening breezes,
As by feather’d arrows led.

Swiftly, swiftly then we glided
By the flowery shores along;
Reach’d a spot where joy presided,
Smiling nymphs, and dance and song.

Music welcomed us and laughter,
Garlands at our feet were thrown;
Then I look’d my wanderer after--
I was left--the bark was gone.

On the stormy shore I laid me,
Careless of the surge’s spray;
Sought the child who had betray’d me,
Saw him laugh--and row away.

Lo! he beckons--lo! he urges--
Through the noisy waves I fly:
Off he speeds across the surges,
Laughing out with louder joy.

Wet and weary, I retreated
To the scene of revelry:--
’Twas a fairy dream that cheated--
All was blank obscurity.

Wanderer! if that boat should ever
Meet thy vision, O be coy!
’Tis delusive--trust him never--
Cupid is a wicked boy.

THE PRISONER.

There, where the swift Rhone’s waters flow
Its verdant banks between;
Where fragrant myrtles bending grow,
And Rhone reflects their green;
There, where the vineyards deck the hills,
And o’er the valleys spread,
Which golden citrons’ fragrance fills,
And plantains rear their head--

There stood, as sunk the lord of day,
Upon the smiling shore,
One who long watch’d the waters play,
And thought his sorrows o’er;
A Russian hero--stolen by war,
The honour of the Don;
Divided from his friends afar,
He wander’d there alone.

‘O roll!’ he sang, ‘ye waters roll--
Flow in your glory on;
Your waves shall waken on my soul
The memory of the Don.
My days pass by without an aim,
Amidst life’s busy roar;
For what is life without its fame,
Or the bright world?--’tis poor.

‘Now nature wears its spring-tide dress,
The sun shines splendidly;
All liberty and loveliness--
O! why am I not free?
O roll, ye waters! rage, thou Rhone!
And waken, as ye roll,
The thoughts of my domestic zone
Within my troubled soul.

‘The maidens here are fair and bright,
Their glance is full of fire;
And their all-graceful smiles of light
Might satisfy desire.
But what is love in foreign lands,
Or joy?--I only know
The joy and love that bless our sands,
Midst forests and midst snow.

‘Give me my freedom--let me tread
Once more my country’s strand;
With frost and storm all overspread--
My home--my father-land!
Deep is the snow around my door;
But give me my own steed,
And day and night, the mountains o’er,
Me to my home he’ll lead.

‘At home, there’s one who sits and keeps
The memory of her love;
And often to the window creeps,
And pours her prayers above.
She guards the thoughts of him whose mind
Guards every thought of her;
She pats the horse I left behind--
How privileged to be there!

‘O roll, thou Rhone! ye waters roll--
Rush in your glory on;
Your waves still waken in my soul
The memory of the Don.
Come, winds! come hither from the north,
Come, in your freshness, come:
And thou bright pole-star blazen forth,
Memento of my home!’

So spake the prisoner, as he turn’d
To Lyons his tired eye,
When long in exile’s chains he mourn’d
His hapless destiny.
He sang--the Rhone roll’d proudly on,
The moon oft kiss’d its tide;
And oft on Lyons’ turrets shone
The sun in all his pride.

TO THE RHINE.

FRAGMENT.

Here, in the misty days of time departed,
The ranks of bards oft tuned their solemn hymn;
Teutonic minstrels sang--gay--eager-hearted--
Still’d is their music now--their light is dim.
Thy waves roll on--they roll as then--
Their proud, untired, untroubled way--
Eternal is thy course--while men,
Unlike thy waves--decline--decay.

MERSLAKOV.

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON.

ISAIAH XIV. 5-28.

’Tis over--she exists no more--
The terror of the bad and good
Is fallen--an awful solitude
Spreads all her insolent trophies o’er.
Her crumbling ruins are in dust:
The Almighty, in his anger just,
Has scatter’d all her glories: He--
The Lord--hath riven the heavy yoke--
He hath th’ accursed sceptre broke,
And given his people liberty.

Thus did the Lord--the Lord of might!
His day of wrath for us is past;
The smiter he hath smitten at last,
And beam’d on us his smile of light.
Joy round his Israel’s tents has sped,
And grateful Lebanon bows his head,
And joins with ours his song of praise:
The heavenly cedars from on high
Bending--‘And thou art razed,’ they cry,
‘And we have seen thy dying blaze.’

Destruction now, in robes of night,
Hath veil’d thy fading rays in gloom;
Strange shadows round thee take their flight,
As on the storm the surges’ foam.
The empress of a hundred states--
The city of the thousand gates--
Her glory in the dust is laid.
‘What! thou who wert a god in pride,
‘Is this thy fate--so magnified,
‘And so defenceless--so decay’d?’

Where is thy pride, thy pageantry?
Where is thy glory, humbled thing?
O bid thy choral voices sing
The triumphs of thy vanity!
No! all is still--for, like a shade,
The idle tones of flattery fade;
And music’s charms--a shifting play.
Murd’ress! how baseless was thy trust!
Thy house is night, thy bed the dust,
Thy covering--crawling worms of clay.

There was a light from heaven that shone,
Dazzling all visions with its ray:
It shone in glory yesterday--
This morn it glanced--but now ’tis gone.
Then, thine was an imperial will--
Now, as the grave, thy voice is still.
Thou saidst, in insolent pride, ‘My throne
‘I’ll build upon the highest star--
‘Ride on the rolling clouds afar,
‘And this proud Zion trample down.

‘My car the glorious sky shall sweep,
‘My towers the very heavens shall reach,
‘Obedience to the gods to teach:’
And now--thou art a ruin’d heap.
The pilgrim who shall seek thee there,
Will only find a wild-beast’s lair
In a vast desert: he shall stand
Trembling before the God of heaven,
And pray his sins may be forgiven,
And hide his pale cheek in his hand.

Was this the city that we fear’d,
This she whose fetter-bearing hands
Enslaved, insulted countless lands,
While misery in her train appear’d?
Who shall resist death’s mighty claim?
Who shall oppose the good man’s fame?
His sons shall watch his gen’rous fires,
And he shall live in memory’s store,
In the wet eyelids of the poor,
Until he sleeps where sleep his sires.

Thou’rt stretch’d upon the battle-plain,
And shame and misery hem thee round;
Indignant voices curse the ground
Where thou once rear’dst thy trophies vain.
Thou, the destroyer of thy sons!
Thou, thy own people’s murderer once!
Now liest beneath th’ unwholesome dew--
A peaceful grave is now denied thee.
The God of vengeance stands beside thee,
Thy children’s children to pursue.

Now rise, in all thy fury rise,
Sprout of the fallen accursed race;
New threats of slavery I trace--
Another plague towards us flies.
No! God hath said: ‘My strength shall wake,
And in the storm and thunder speak,
And sweep the daring hordes away;
Their towns the tygers’ haunts shall be,
Their lands--the cradle of the sea,
And all their memory shall decay.’

He spake--and as He spoke ’twas done:
The mandate of Thy heavenly will
To utter, Lord! is to fulfil;
For art Thou not th’ Almighty One?
Thou hast subdued their tyranny,
Broken our bonds of slavery;
Hast waved Thy fearful, fiery rod:
And who shall check Thy awful hand?
Who shall Thy thunderbolt withstand?
Who battle with a battling God?

VOEIKOV.

TO MY FUTURE BRIDE.

O unknown being! thou whom long my soul has sought,
Vision of fancy bright, thou mild and lovely queen!
Thou, vainly, long, pursued by my impatient thought,
Thou pure divinity unseen!

O tell me in what mist thou veil’st thy shadowy form!
O tell me where thy steps have left their wonted trace!
For in hope’s sunshine hour, and in grief’s frowning storm,
I feel thou art my resting place.

When I my civic post, or social circle fill,
And with th’ infirm and poor my narrow portion share,
The widows’ sorrows soothe, the orphans’ murmuring still,
I know, sweet spirit! thou art there.