Chapter III: Part 3

When fancy takes her flight beyond terrestrial things,
And towers above all space, and leaves behind all time;
And up to holiest stars of thought’s creation springs,
Thou art her brightest dream sublime.

Once, in the moonlight’s shade, I saw thee, angel! stand,
(Bent o’er a marble urn, whose waters gently swell’d)
Clad in celestial white, bound with an azure band,
A heavenly lyre thy fingers held.

And once, amidst a crowd, bright tears hung on thine eye,
Thy head sunk on thy breast, devotion seem’d t’ engross
Thy thoughts, and kneeling, thou pray’dst heaven in ecstasy,
Pressing the consecrated cross.

I saw thee, angel-like, through yonder temple glide,
Scattering thy light around like some ray-crested saint,
Whispering sweet notes of peace, in the still eventide,
To many a pilgrim tired and faint.

I love to paint thee when thy bounty’s generous store
Soothes the gray beggar’s wants, and comforts the distrest,
Anoints the sick with oil, provides with bread the poor,
And for the houseless finds a rest.

And O! how blest, to dream that thou may’st yet be mine,
A very dove of peace, around my steps to hie,
Waking from thy sweet lyre a melody divine,
Gay as a summer butterfly.

And when upon the wave, midst twilight’s peaceful gleam,
I launch my little bark, wilt thou sit smiling by,
And with thy lovely hand conduct it o’er the stream,
And rule my blessed destiny;

And listen to my tale of fond and passionate love:
Not, like a ghost, as now, but holding in thy hand
A golden lamp; nor e’er seek thy own shrine above,
But throw aside thy misty band.

My guardian spirit, hail! unveil thee in thy bloom,
For thou art lovelier far than feeble poet’s art;
Come in thy virtues now--in all thy glory come,
And fill the vacuum of my heart.

MURAVIEV.

TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVA.

Glide, majestic Neva! glide thee,
Deck’d with bright and peaceful smiles;
Palaces are raised beside thee,
Midst the shadows of the isles.

Stormy Russian seas thou bindest
With the ocean--by the grave
Of our glorious Tzar thou windest,
Which thy grateful waters lave.

And the middle-ocean’s surges
All thy smiling naiads court;
While thy stream to Paros urges,
And to Lemnos’ classic port.

Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded,
See the brightest memories fade;
Glassy mirrors--how degraded!
Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade.

While thy happier face is bearing
Ever-smiling images,
On thy busy banks appearing
Crowds in gaiety and peace.

Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes,
Spread their riches o’er thy breast,
While thy well-known banner rises,
Rises proudly o’er the rest.

In thy baths what beauties bathe them,
Goddesses of love and light;
There Erota loves to swathe them
In the brightest robes of night.

Cool thy smiling banks at even,
Cool thy grottos and thy cells,
Where, by gentle breezes driven,
Oft the dancing billow swells.

Then thou gatherest vapours round thee,
Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress;
Love and Mirth have now unbound thee--
Yield thee to thy waywardness.

Thou dost bear the dying over,
Weary of his earthly dream[1];
And with awful mists dost cover
All the bosom of the stream.

With thy car thou troublest never
The calm silence of the deep;
Syrens dance around thee ever,
Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep.

Peaceful goddess! oft the singer
Sees thee, in his ecstasy,
On the rock he loves to linger,
Sleepless--then he meets with thee.

BOLESLAV,

KING OF POLAND.

Fame and glory’s feeble embers
Fade o’er many a hero brave;
But the faithful Pole remembers
The good prince--King Boleslav.

True to love, though purple-girded--
True to friendship, though a king;
In his inner soul there herded
Thoughts for ever festering.

He was happy--but two brothers
Saw with dark and secret hate
Their proud father-land another’s--
They aspired to rule the state.

They were loved--the king delighted
All his love to pour on them;
But a maiden’s faith was plighted,
And he saw the promised gem.

As the lily, courted only
By the breezes of the wood;
So Volhynia’s princess lonely,
Shrouded her in solitude.

Sbignei saw--and loved--communion
Of affections swiftly grew:
They were sworn to holy union,
Sworn to Hymen’s pledges true.

List!--the trumpets call the forces;
See the dust clouds on the fields;
Hark!--the impatient neigh of horses--
‘To the fight!’--and Sbignei yields.

To the town the monarch drew him,
Not in pride of victory;--
Saw the princess--and he threw him
Bending at the lady’s knee.

Tears adown her cheeks were flowing,
And in agony she cried:
‘Whither is my Sbignei going?
O desert me not--thy bride!’

Yet two moons had told their story--
Sick with love is Boleslav;
He forgot his martial glory,
And his army true and brave.

Sbignei now all truce hath broken,
His Bohemian troops he calls;
See his rebel standard-token
Marching on Volhynia’s walls.

’Tis in vain--he is forsaken--
The Bohemian bands have fled;
He himself a prisoner taken--
But his vizor veils his head.

See!--the jealous king espies him
Sleeping on Volhynia’s knee--
Draws his dagger and destroys him--
’Twas his brother!--’twas not he!

Who shall tell the murderer’s madness--
Who shall paint his deathlike look?
There he stood, in grief and sadness,
Staggering--starting--thunderstruck.

Fain his steel he would have buried
In his tortur’d throbbing breast;
But th’ attendant courtiers hurried,
From his hand that steel to wrest.

Then he left his kingly palace,
All he left--except his woe;
To the spot that Calvary hallows,
Pilgrim-like he vow’d to go.

Every city where he wander’d
Heard his crime, and heard his prayers:
O’er his wretched fate he ponder’d,
Asking pardon even with tears.

Be he pardon’d!--his repentance--
May it bring his soul relief:
Mournful is man’s earthly sentence,
Glory is no shield from grief.

* * * * *

She bent her head, and the tears that fell
Were veil’d as there were shame in tears:
Her lips were closed, but a low ‘farewell’
Had glided from those lips of hers.

The pale moon shone, and she raised her eye,
It sparkled in the heavenly ray--
A smile awoke, and the tear was dry--
And the maiden sped her on her way.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The burying-place at Petersburg is on the other side of the Neva.

KAPNIST.

ON JULIA’S DEATH.

The evening darkness shrouds
The slumbering world in peace,
And from her throne of clouds
Shines Luna through the trees.
My thoughts in silence blend,
But gather’d all to thee:
Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
O come! and mourn with me.

Upon her grave I bow,
The green grave where she lies:
O hear my sorrows now,
And consecrate my sighs!
This is her ashes’ bed--
Here her cold relics sleep--
Where I my tears shall shed
While this torn heart can weep.

O Julia! never rose
Had half the charms of thee--
My comfort--my repose--
O! thou wert all to me.
But thou art gone--and I
Must bear life’s load of clay--
And pray--and long to die--
Though dying day by day.

But I must cease to sing,
My lyre all mute appears--
Alas! its plaintive string
Is wetted with my tears.
O! misery’s song must end--
My thoughts all fly to thee:--
Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
O come and mourn with me!

PETROV.

ON THE

VICTORY OF THE RUSSIAN OVER THE TURKISH FLEET.

O triumph! O delight! O time so rich in fame
Unclouded, bright and pure as the sun’s mid-day flame!
Ruthenia’s strength goes forth--see from the sea emerge
The Typhons of the north--the lightning, in its might,
Flashes in dazzling light,
And subject is the surge.

They wander o’er the waves--their eye impatiently
Seeks where the Moslem’s flag flaunts proudly o’er the sea--
’Tis there!--’tis there! exclaim the brave impatient crowd--
The sails unfurl’d--each soul with rage and courage burns--
Each to the combat turns--
They meet--it thunders loud!

I see from Ætna’s rocks a floating army throng:
A hero, yet unsung, wafts the proud choir along--
The masts, a fir tree wood--the sails, like outspread wings.
List! to the shoutings--see! the flash--they thunder near.
Earthquakes and night are there--
With storms the welkin rings.

There _January_ speeds--there _Svætoslav_ moves on,
And waves and smoke alike are into tempest thrown;
And there the ship that bears the three-times hallow’d name[1],
And _Rotislav_ and _Europe_, there triumphant ride;
While the agitated tide
Is startled with the flame.

Eustav, in fire conceal’d, scatters the death-like brand,
And earth and heaven are moved, and tremble sea and land;
And there, a mountain pile, sends round the deeds of death,
As if Vesuvius’ self in combat were engaged--
While other mountains raged,
And pour’d their flaming breath.

The roar, the whiz, the hum, in one commingling sound,
The clouds of smoke that rise, and spread and roll around;
The waves attack the sky in wild and phrenzied dance;
The sails are white as snow; and now the sun looks on,
Now shrouds him on his throne--
And the swift lightnings glance.

Hard proof of valour this--the spirit’s fiery test:
Fierce combat--grown more fierce--bear high the burning breast!
See, on the waves there ride two mountains, fiery-bound,
Ætna and Hecla, loose on ocean’s heaving bed--
The burning torches spread,
And ruin stalks around.

Ocean, and shore, and air, rush backward at the sight,
The Greek and Turk stand still, and groan in wild affright;
Calm as a rock the Russ is welcoming death with death;
But ah! destruction now blazes its fiery links,
And even victory sinks
Its heavy weight beneath.

O frightful tragedy!--a furnace is the sea--
The triumph ours--the flames have reach’d the enemy:
He burns--he dies in smoke--beneath the struggle rude
The northern heroes sink, with weariness opprest,
And ask a moment’s rest,
As if they were subdued.

And whence that threatening cloud that hangs upon their head?
That threatens now to burst--What! is their leader dead?
And is he borne away, who all our bosoms warm’d?
He fell--there lies his sword--there lie his shield and helm--
What sorrows o’erwhelm
The conqueror disarm’d!

O no! he wakes again from night--he waves his hand,
Beckoning to the brave ranks that, mourning, round him stand:
‘My brother!’ cried he--‘Heaven! and is my brother gone?--
Their sails unfurl--My friends! O see! O see! they fly--
On--“Death or vengeance!” cry,
On, on to Stambul’s throne!’

He fled--O hero! peace! there is no cause for grief,
He lives--thy brother lives, and Spiridov, his chief:
No dolphin saved them there--it was the Almighty God,
The God who sees thy deeds, thy valour who approves,
And tries the men he loves
With his afflictive rod.

The dreadful dream is past--past like a mist away,
And dawns, serene and bright, a cloudless victory day:
The trump of shadeless joy--the trump of triumph speaks;
The hero and his friend are met, and fled their fears;
They kiss each others cheeks,
They water them with tears.

They cried ‘And is our fame, and is our glory stain’d?
God is our shield--revenge and victory shall be gain’d--
We live--and Mahmoud’s might a hundred times shall fall;
We live--the astonish’d world our hero-deeds shall see.
And every victory
A burning fleet recall.

Whence this unusual glare o’er midnight’s ocean spread:
At what unwonted hour has Phœbus left his bed?
No! they are Russian crowds who struggle with the foe,
’Tis their accordant torch that flashes through the night.
Sequana! see the might
Of Stambul sink below.

The harbour teems with life, an amphitheatre
Of sulphurous pitch and smoke, and awful noises there;
The fiends of hell are loose, the sea has oped its caves,
Fate rides upon the deep, and laughs amidst the fray,
Which feeds with human prey
The monsters of the waves.

See, like a furnace boils and steams the burning flood,
’Tis fill’d with mortal flesh, ’tis red with mortal blood,
Devour’d by raging flames, drunk by the thirsty wave,
The clouds seem palpable--a thick and solid mass--
They sink like stone or brass
Into their water-grave.

Thou ruler of the tomb!--Dread hour of suffering,
When all the elements----Drop, Muse! thy feeble wing!
Hell, with its fiends--and all the fiends that man e’er drew
There mingled--Silence veil that awful memory o’er!
I see the hero pour
The tears of pity too!

O Peter! great in song, as great in glory once,
Look from thy throne sublime upon thy Russia’s sons:
See, how thy fleets have won the palm of victory,
And hear the triumph sound, even to the gate of heaven--
The Turkish strength is riven
Even in the Turkish sea.

Thee, Copenhagen saw--the Neptune of the Belt;
Now Cherma’s humbled sons before thy flag have knelt.
The helpless Greeks have fled--thy banner sees their shore,
Trembling they look around, while thy dread thunder swells,
And shakes the Dardanelles,
And Smyrna hears its roar.

Gallicians! fear ye not the now advancing flame,
Recording, as it flies, your own, your country’s shame?
In the dark days of old, your valiant fathers trod
In the brave steps of Rome, towards lands of southern glow;
Ye fight with Russians now,
Beneath the Moslems’ rod.

Where innocence is found--there, there protection wakes;
Where Catherine’s voice is heard--there truth, there justice speaks:
A ruler’s virtues are the strength and pride of states,
And surely ours shall bloom where Catherine’s virtues stand.
O enviable land!
Glory is at our gates.

Soar, eagle! soar again, spring upward to the height,
For yet the Turkish flag is flaunting in the light:
In Cherma’s port it still erects its insolent head,
And thou must pour again thy foes’ blood o’er the sea,
And crush their treachery,
And wide destruction spread!

But fame now summons thee from death to life again,
The people’s comfort now, their glory to maintain;
The hero’s palm is won.--Now turn thee and enhance
The hero’s triumphs with the patriot’s milder fame.
O Romans! without shame
On Duil’s spoils we glance.

We’ll consecrate to thee a towering marble dome!
From yonder southern sea, O bring thy trophies home,
Bring Scio’s trophies home,--those trophies still shall be
Thy glory, Orlov, thine!--the records of thy deeds,
When future valour reads
Astrea’s victory!

O could my waken’d muse a worthy offering bring,
O could my grateful lyre a song of glory sing,
O could I steal from thee the high and towering thought,
With thy proud name the world, the listening world I’d fill;
And Camoens’ harp be still,
And Gama be forgot!

Thine was a nobler far than Jason’s enterprise,
Whose name shines like a star in history’s glorious skies:
He bore in triumph home the rich, the golden fleece;
But with thy valour thou, and with thy conquering band,
Hast saved thy father land,
And given to Hellas peace.

But O! my tongue is weak to celebrate thy glory,
Thy valiant deeds shall live in everlasting story,
For public gratitude thy name will e’er enshrine--
Who loves his country, who his empress loves, will throw
His garland on thy brow,
And watch that fame of thine.

But when thou humbledst low the Moslem’s pride and scorn,
And badest her crescent sink, her vain and feeble horn,
And pass’dst the Belt again, with songs and hymns of joy,
Who that perceived thy flag, in all its mightiness,
What Russian could repress
The tears that dimm’d his eye?

I see the people rush to welcome thee again,
Thy ships, with trophies deep, upon the swelling main;
I see the maidens haste, the aged, and the young,
The children wave their hands, and to their fathers turn,
And thousand questions burn
On their inquiring tongue.

“Is this the eagle proud of whom we have been told,
Who led against the Turks the Russian heroes bold,
And with their warriors” blood the azure ocean dyed?
Is this our Orlov--this, with eagle’s heart and name[2],
His foe’s reproach and shame,
And Russia’s strength and pride?’

O yes! O yes! ’tis he--The eagle there appears,
And ocean bears him on, as proud of him she bears:
And see his brother too, who led to victory, there--
And Spirodov, whose praise all ages shall renew,
And Greig and Ilijn too--
The heroes--without fear.

But--wherefore do I rest--what fancies lead me on?
The glorious eagle now to Asia’s coasts is flown,
O’er streams, and hills, and vales, he takes his course sublime,
My eye in vain pursues his all-subduing flight.
O vision of delight!
O victory-girded time!

And heaven, and earth, and sea have seen our victories won,
And echo with the deeds that Catherine has done;
The Baltic coasts in vain oppose the march of Paul,
Not the vast north alone, but all th’ Ægean sea
Shall own his sovereignty,
And the whole earthly ball!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Trinity.

[2] _Orel_ is the Russian for eagle. _Orlov_, inflection of the noun.

SHATROV.

TO THE ARMY OF THE DON.

Moskva is stunn’d with the thunder-storm’s rattle:
See! for the Don has sprung over its banks,
Arm’d ’gainst the foe in fury and battle,
Crowd to the ranks!
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Trump of the Tzar! which to triumph calls loudly--
Spirits of Moskva!--ye warriors away!
Thousand times thousand arrange themselves proudly,
Ripe for the fray.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

‘Strive against God and our Russia shall no men,’
Ataman cried, while he brandish’d his spear,
‘Scatter’d like ashes, they perish--our foemen,
Where are they--where?’
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Fame-circled monarch! like waterfalls gushing
Down from the rocks, see thy children advance
On the false foe, in their energy rushing,
Sabre and lance!
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Russians shall make them a pathway victorious;
Russians shall conquer from Neva to Rhine;
Armies shall fly at their enterprise glorious;
Triumph is thine.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Russia! O fear not! no foe shall assemble
Near thee--they shrink from the cross-flag ador’d.
Lo! at thy slings and thy sabres they tremble--
Ready thy sword!
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Yes! let thy enemy rage--let him hector--
Strong though he be, he shall fly from the field.
Is not the mother of God our protector--
Michael our shield?
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Ready!--to horse!--for the cannon shouts call our
Heroes to struggle for hopes so sublime!
God himself smiles on the high deeds of valour!--
Children, ’tis time!
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Rush on the Franks--as pyramids steady--
Say, shall they enter the heart of our land?
No! for our heroes are gathering all ready;
Firmly they stand,
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

See! for our legions are wildly advancing,
Bonaparte flies from the Sons of the Don;
Dull is the fame that so brightly was glancing--
France is o’erthrown.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Arrows like hailstones are clattering around us,
Sabres and spear-heads shine bright in the breeze,
And the swift bullets seem whispering--they sound as
Swarming of bees.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Three hundred thousand twice reckon’d oppose them
Vainly to Russia--’tis glory to see
How a small band of Cossāks overthrows them--
Look how they flee.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Cannons and muskets abandon’d--and duty
Forgotten--for death and for terror are nigh--
Willingly yield they their knapsacks and booty,
Only to fly.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

See how the raven is crouching, affrighted,
Where the proud eagle has built its own home;
Russia hath left them alarm’d and benighted--
Russia their tomb.
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

So is the generous struggle rewarded;
So do the insolent enemy bleed;
So is the palace-crown’d, liberty-guarded
Capital freed.
Arm for the right,
Strong in the fight!

Thanks to the Highest One! honour and glory--
He has conducted us--saved is the throne!
Praise to the Tzar--and may garlands grow o’er ye,
Sons of the Don!
Arm’d for the right,
Strong in the fight!

VÆSEMSKY.

TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS, ZH. B. AND S.

My brothers! whither scatter’d now?
What fate--what cruel fate could sever
Hands--souls--fast-bound--divided never?
But ye are fled--and fled for ever,
And I am left alone with woe!

The sigh I heave in silence here,
The careless zephyr bears away;
’Tis lost in twilight’s darkening ray--
’Tis veil’d in night--it fades in day--
It ne’er will reach your listening ear.

Perchance even now, while round me roll
Dark storms and misty clouds--even now,
Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow,
One calls upon his friend--and oh!
Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul.

Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest!
My spirit seems to cling to thee;
From sorrow--to felicity
Wafted--thy bark has pass’d the sea
Of storms--in joy’s calm port to rest.

How long shall absence’ misery last?
When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting?
Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting
Of social bliss return?--How fleeting
Its rapture--’Tis for ever past!

Cold--cold--I feel my heart;--delight
Can kindle ne’er its fire again--
My tears flow forth--they flow in vain;
My smiles--no light those smiles retain;
For what awaked it sinks in night.

Time was--how blessed to recall
That time--when our hands garlanded
The fairest wreaths of roses red,
And in youth’s spring the chorus led
To heaven--the source, the end of all.

Time was--but like a dream it fled!
The hymn--’tis now a funeral dirge;
The garland--’tis affliction’s scourge;
The dance--its memories now emerge
Like ghosts, that wander midst the dead.

And now the plaint ascends!--Appear,
Appear, delightful hours, anew!
Spirit of youth, so fond, so true,
Awake!--Suns, once so bright, so few,
Shine--let illusion’s mockery cheer!

But see! the darkness creeps away--
The clouds disperse--the storm is gone--
Thy smile returns not--blessed one!--
The mountains see the morning dawn--
To me, alas! there dawns no day.

To N. N.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

As in the mid-day sun the flower
Looks brightest, and then bends its head,
So fell thy son--how short his hour
Of bliss--how rapidly he fled!

Yet o’er his cradle--o’er his tomb,
An everlasting daylight shone;
A promise of bright days to come--
Why came he--only to be gone?

As mounts the incense to the skies,
A towering cloud--with cold, pale cheek
Thou saw’st him to his Maker rise,
And his own blessed country seek.

He gave to thee his last, last sigh,
Ere yet he heaved his latest breath;
He turn’d to thee his dying eye,
Ere it was mantled o’er by death.

Thou hadst indulged the sweetest dream
Which hope e’er built, or time decay’d;
And in the future’s distant beam
Thy son a friend, a brother made.

The hours of youth’s delightful reign,
And rapture’s early, spring-tide joy;
Thou in his smiles hadst shared again,
And in thy boy wert twice a boy.

That vision is departed--Sleep
Soon leaves the weary, mortal eye:
Go--with his funeral cypress--weep;
Thy spirit’s peace is slumbering nigh.

With thine my mingling tears I’ll bring--
Their bitterness he cannot know;--
The morning-rose I’ll o’er him fling--
He was a rose of morning too.

FRAGMENT.

The waves of Seine have seen the banner,
The eagle-banner, floating high;
There do the winds of glory fan her,
While flap her pinions to the sky.

Hers was a night of gloom--but morning
Has dawn’d on her triumphant flight;
And now, all fear and weakness scorning,
She soars to liberty and light.

MILONOV.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

Th’ autumnal winds had stripp’d the field
Of all its foliage, all its green;
The winter’s harbinger had still’d
That soul of song which cheer’d the scene:

With visage pale, and tottering gait,
As one who hears his parting knell,
I saw a youth disconsolate;--
He came to breathe his last farewell.

‘Thou grove! how dark thy gloom to me,
Thy glories riven by autumn’s breath;
In every falling leaf I see
A threatening messenger of death.

‘O Æsculapius! in my ear
Thy melancholy warnings chime:
Fond youth! bethink thee, thou art here
A wanderer--for the last--last time.

‘Thy spring will winter’s gloom o’ershade,
Ere yet the fields are white with snow;
Ere yet the latest flow’rets fade,
Thou in thy grave wilt sleep below.

‘I hear a hollow murmuring,
The cold wind rolling o’er the plain--
Alas! the brightest days of spring
How swift, how sorrowful, how vain!

‘O wave, ye dancing boughs, O wave!
Perchance to-morrow’s dawn may see
My mother weeping on my grave--
Then consecrate my memory.

‘I see, with loose, dishevell’d hair,
Covering her snowy bosom, come
The angel of my childhood there,
To dew with tears my early tomb.

‘Then in the autumn’s silent eve,
With fluttering wing, and gentlest tread,
My spirit its calm bed shall leave,
And hover o’er the mourner’s head.’

Then he was silent--faint and slow
His steps retraced;--he came no more:
The last leaf trembled on the bough--
And his last pang of grief was o’er.

Beneath the aged oaks he sleeps;--
The angel of his childhood there
No watch around his tombstone keeps.
But when the evening stars appear,

The woodman, to his cottage bound,
Close to that grave is wont to tread;
But his rude footsteps, echo’d round,
Break not the silence of the dead.

MERSLÆKOV.

DUETT.

FIRST VOICE.

Thus the weeping shepherd spoke,
While his heart with anguish broke,
To the maiden of his bosom:
It can never be!

I shall see thee smile no more;
Thou art rich, and I am poor:
Leave me--be serene and happy--
To my misery!

SECOND VOICE.

Then the youthful shepherdess
Heaved a sigh for his distress,
Gently utter’d, calm and sorrowing,
It can never be?

Thou art mine--for ever mine;
What though poverty be thine?
They who have love’s fount of riches
Know no poverty!

FIRST VOICE.

I am of unhonour’d line,
And the world alone--is mine:
How the proud, and how the noble
Will thy choice reprove!

SECOND VOICE.

Slander is their joy--they know
Nothing of affection’s glow:
Ancestry and pride I seek not--
But I seek thy love!

FIRST VOICE.

Smiles and joy thy steps await:--
Misery is at my gate:
Tears are bitter--but most bitter
Tears of penitence!

SECOND VOICE.

Unpartaken pleasure cloys,
But divided woes are joys;
Where our common tears are mingled
Grief will fly from thence!

FIRST VOICE.

Corn-flowers and forget-me-not,
And narcissus, ne’er I sought;
Now I’ll seek the sweetest flow’rets
For my smiling fair!

SECOND VOICE.

Strange a shepherd’s life to me,
Yet a shepherdess I’ll be;
Though my father’s rich, I’ll braid thee
Garlands for thy hair!

BOTH.

Thou hast made life’s burthen lighter,
Every star and flower is brighter;
Now with thine my heart is blended,
Every thought and breath!

Tears and sorrow, if they come,
Shall not wear the garb of gloom;
Life with thee is crown’d with beauty--
Beautiful is death!

KHOVANSKY.

_Ya vechor v lugakh gulyala._

Through the silent evening hours,
Musing on my cares, I roved;
And amused me gathering flowers,
Forming wreaths for him I loved.

Pensively I wander’d round,
Till the sun had left the plain;
Many and many a flower I found,
But _one_ flower I sought in vain.

Through the solitary even
Every where that flower I sought;
’Tis a flower as blue as heaven--
’Twas in vain--I found it not.

Mournful I was homeward going,
When--a gentle rivulet nigh,
I espied that flow’ret growing--
Which I pluck’d in ecstasy.

Sweet Forget-me-not! elated,
Tears express’d my bursting thought,
And I sigh’d, and I repeated,
O my friend! Forget-me-not!

Gold and glare to me are dim--
He is dearer far than they;
They can add no charm to him--
‘Maid! I love thee!’ charmer, say!

NATIONAL SONGS.

I.

_Ne golubūshka v’chīstom pōlæ vōrkuet._

O’er the meadow not a turtle speeds or flutters,
And the twilight no dew-drops scatters over:
In her chamber a young maiden her griefs utters,
As she thinks, drown’d in tears, of her lover:
Her bright eyes with bursting sorrow are loaded,
Her heart with disappointment has been goaded.

‘My beloved! my beloved! my heart’s master!’
She cried, in her agony overflowing:
Her sighs thicken’d--her tears they hurried faster--
‘O some viper my bosom must be gnawing,
Some poison must my life-blood be congealing!--
No! thy absence creates this bitter feeling.

‘’Tis no traitor, ’tis no false one who has left me,
No vile-minded, no polluted, no cold-hearted--
How sad was the moment which bereft me--
How bitter my sorrow when we parted!
When I lost thee all was darkness about me;
Life and death are indifferent without thee.

‘’Twas not violence fetter’d our affection;
’Twas thy prudence, ’twas thy virtue, that enchain’d me--
In thy bosom love and friendship found protection,
And the heart that was worthy of me gain’d me:
We are pledged not--we are sworn not--for brighter
Is the chain of sweet sympathy--and tighter.

‘Then return thee, my beloved! and forget not
Thou controllest all my joy and all my sorrow;--
Think of me, my heart’s confidence! and let not
My thoughts any gloomier shadows borrow:
’Tis for thee--’tis for thee _alone_--that I grieve me--
Come again, thou sweet spirit! to relieve me.’[1]

II.

_Osen blædnaya v polyakh._

Autumn’s robes are on the mead,
Colder blow the breezes cold;
Sadness fills the shepherd’s fold,
And the cheerful birds are fled.
All are fled--ye swains, draw near,
All your store of gladness bring:
Shepherds--shepherdesses--hear!
Gather round me while I sing.
Come--the shadowy thatch is o’er ye--
Listen to my jealous story.

Daphne, wandering, chanced to look
Towards the wood, and saw, alone,
Sporting, his beloved one,
Leaning on her pastoral crook;
Her light morning garments on--
On her hand a wreath she held,
Playing with the early sun,
In the forest and the field:
O, it was a moment meet
For a lover’s heart to beat!

Forward she--he sought the wood
Swiftly--not less swift she flew--
Harder beat his bosom true--
He was left in solitude.
Like a rein-deer she is gone,
Buried in the thickest shade.
‘Heaven--and faithless, treacherous one!
‘Do I dream?--No!--cruel maid!
‘Some heart’s-robber waits thee there--
‘Wretched man!--deceitful fair!’

But he reach’d the wood at last,
And he hears the rustling boughs,
Hides him midst the leaves, and vows
That his eagle eye shall blast
All her joy--her shame unveil:
Then he put the boughs aside,
But, as tutor’d to conceal,
They rebound, dissatisfied;
And he stands, a senseless thing,
When he heard his maiden sing:--

(Gods of heaven! and fiends of hell!
Ye, who e’er a heart conferr’d--
Ye, who e’er of passion heard--
Thunder were less terrible.)
‘Come,’ she said, ‘O come, my dear!
Come, thou brightest, sweetest, best!
Sport thee with this garland here,
Sleep upon my welcoming breast;
Dwell, my joy, my pride, with me,
And my heart shall dwell with thee.’

‘Vile deceiver!--fallen to this!’
And the forest echo’d round
Laughter, and the gentler sound
Of the love-conferring kiss.
Through the circling boughs he tears,
And, with fury-flashing eyes,
Met his maiden pale with fears,
And--upon her hand espies
A sweet bird that she caress’d,
And was fondling in her breast.

Canst thou, canst thou then forgive
He who dared to doubt thy truth?
‘No! forgiveness, erring youth!
Ne’er with doubting love can live.’
So she spoke--his heart was broken,
Veil’d in grief and sunk in shame;
Tears, repentance’ bitter token,
Fell, but could not quench the flame:
So--for love the victory wins--
She forgave him all his sins.

III.

TO MARY.

Noisy nightingale! be still,
Hear’st thou not the sweeter thrill
Of my Mary,
Of my fairy,
From the cottage? through the trees,
Born on breath of western breeze.

As the skylark from her height,
Midst the dews of opening light,
Sweetly singeth;
Joy upspringeth
From the heart that song to hear--
So I love thy voice, my dear!

Turn I towards the window-seat--
Give me one soft glance, my sweet!
Kind is Mary,
Kind my fairy,
Joyous as a summer’s day
In the mildest smile of May.

Then her heart its folds unveils,
And she sings its secret tales:
Gently flowing,
Mildly glowing,
O how sweetly falls the strain!
O how fascinating then!

When upon her harpsichord
Music leads the mournful word,
And the spirit
Sighs to hear it,
Led by her in willing chain--
Who was ever like her then?

Who?--two Marys cannot be.
Mary! life’s sweet witchery!
Mary! bless me,
And caress me:
Kings might envy, for thou art,
Mary! thou, my heart of heart.

Peace!--she sighs--thou window fly
Open--let me drink her sigh:
Glowing, blushing,
Thither rushing,
Could I steal one rapturous kiss--
Sing, sweet bird! thy song of bliss.

IV.

_Akh! kabĭ na tzvætĭ ne Morosĭ._

If the frost nipp’d the flowrets no more,
If in winter the flowrets would bloom,
If the woes of my spirit were o’er,
My spirit should cast off its gloom:
I would sit with my sorrow no longer,
O’erwatching the dew-covered field.
I said to my father already,
Already I said to my taper[2],
‘Nay! marry me not, O my father!
O marry me not to a proud one!
O seek not for high piles of riches,
O seek not for palaces fair,
’Tis man, not his palace we dwell in,
’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!’
I hurried across the young grass,
I threw off my sable fur cloak,
Lest its rustling perchance might betray me,
Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle--
Afraid my stepfather would hear me,
And say, ‘she is there,’ to his son--
To his son--who is doom’d for my husband.

V.

_Akh! kak toshno mnæ toshnen’ko._

O how gloomy has been to me
The year that speeds away,
But gloomier than all the rest to me
Gloomier than all--to-day!
I must forget my meat and drink,
And of my lover think.
I must no longer idly sleep,
But counsel seek, and keep.
Counsel--counsel must I seek,
And seek it from my lover.
Let us, let us now, my hope,
Let us live in love;
Live in love, while time runs over,
Were it but a year,
And that year will then appear
Like a little day.
Fain, my love, I’d live with thee,
But the wicked ones,
Even our next door neighbours watch
With a never-weary eye;
Every step they watch,
And to father and to mother
Tell most lying tales;
Such as that the youthful maiden
Woke at early hour,
Woke at early hour to watch her,
Watch her youthful friend;
And she stood upon the threshold
And her kerchief waved.
Truly, she did wave her kerchief
To invite her friend.
Turn again, my hopes! come hither,
Hither to my soul!
O thou com’st not!--tell me wherefore,
Wherefore art thou hidden?
Yes! they call thee, thou my treasure!
Thou wilt marry thee.
When thou hastenest to the altar,
Say farewell! to me.
Take away my woe and sorrow
From the luckless maid,
Bind her woe, and bind her sorrow
To thy horse’s mane.
Scatter all the maiden’s sorrow
O’er the flowerless field;
Spring there from the maiden’s sorrow,
Fairest grass and turf!
Grass and turf from maiden’s sorrow,
And the sweetest flowers;
All the flowers are brightly red--
One more bright than all--
One--yes, one is far more bright--
O the bright red flower!
Many and many a friend I love,
One far more than all;
One is dearer than the rest--
Loved one of my soul!

VI.

_Tĭ vosnoi, vosnoi zhavoronochik._

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!

In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully,
To his father writes--to his mother writes:
Thus he wrote--and these--these were the very words:
‘O good father mine--thou beloved sir!
O good mother mine--thou beloved dame!
Ransom me, I pray--ransom the good lad,
He is your beloved--is your only son!’
Father--mother--both--both refused to hear,
Cursed their hapless race--cursed their hapless seed:
‘Never did a thief our honest name disgrace--
Highwayman or thief never stain’d the name.’

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone in the green of May!

From the prison-tower thus the prisoner wrote,
Thus the prisoner wrote to his beloved maid:
‘O thou soul of mine! O thou lovely maid!
Truest love of mine--sweetest love of mine!
Save--O save, I pray--save the prison’d lad!’
Swiftly, then, exclaim’d that beloved maid:
‘Come, attendant! come--come my faithful nurse--
Servant faithful--you that long have faithful been,
Bring the golden key--bring the key with speed--
Ope the treasure chests--open them in haste;
Golden treasures bring--bring them straight to me:
Ransom him, I say--ransom the good lad,
He is my beloved--of my heart beloved.’

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!

VII.

_Na boskhodĭ krasna solnĭshka._

When the lovely sun is mounting high,
And the bright moon leaves the morning sky;
When no falcon floats upon the air,
By the river’s side a youth is seen--
Ah! he totters--slowly moving there,
His faint eye glides o’er the gardens green,
While he holds sad converse with woe and care:
Then the little birds awake and greet
Bridegroom and bride, in raptures sweet
They flap their wings in ecstasy:
My turtle!--all--yes! all but thou,
Who slumberest in thy chamber now,
Nor sighest--nor sendst a thought to me--
No! I am banish’d from her dreams--
My memory now no longer gleams
In her heart--my soul’s bright hours are o’er--
Nadesha will be mine no more!

From her chamber then the maiden sped,
And grief was on her cheeks distrest;
And her eyes with sorrow’s tears were red,
Her arms hung down--she is not dead,
For no arrow has transfix’d her breast,
And no venomous snake has poison’d her:
He would speak--but he was forced to hear:
‘Now fare thee well, thou loving one!
My soul!--my father’s best loved son!
Last eve I was affianced--
Oh! and the guests to-morrow come:
They will lead me to God’s holy shrine,
Call me another’s--wretched doom!
Another’s----but for ever thine.’

VIII.

_Akh! daleche v chistom polæ._

Alas! on that plane, distant meadow towers
A little tree, whose branches raise them high,
And neath those branches grows the emerald grass,
And o’er the grass full many a floweret blooms,
There many a floweret blooms as blue as heav’n.
And on those flowerets was a carpet spread,
And on that carpet sat two brothers lone,
Two lonely brothers, link’d in strongest love:
The elder brother waked the cymbal’s voice,
To which the younger’s sweetest hymns were join’d:
‘Two sons, our mother gave us to the world,
Our father like two falcons rear’d his boys;
He rear’d and fed us--yet he taught us nought--
But rear’d us on this wide and foreign land:
A wide and foreign land--the town unknown;
Wide foreign land--dry even without the wind--
Dry without wind, and chilly without frost.
Our mother deem’d we never should get free,
But we have freed us in this happy hour,
And now, O mother! thou wilt find us not.’

IX.

_Tĭ dusha moya._

‘O thou soul of mine,
Gentle maid divine!
Thou who didst possess
All this heart of mine,
Sit not, my love’s light!
Watching through the night:
Waxen taper now
Burn no more, I pray,
Wait me now no more
Till the break of day!
All our hope is over,
And betrothed thy lover;
And I came to ask
For thy last farewell,
And my gratitude
For past love to tell.’

Hardly had he spoken,
Hardly had he said--
Sobbing--spirit-broken--
Wept the lovely maid:
Melting into tears,
Trembling in her fears,
Firmly yet she cried:
‘Give me, treacherous thing,
Give my golden ring:
Take the knife of steel
Which thou once hadst given,
Let its blade be driven
To my heart--and feel
How it burnt for thee,
While thou murderedst me!’

‘Weep not, gentle maid!
Weep no more, I pray;
I shall often come,
Come from day to day:
I shall love thee more--
Better--than before.’
But she wept again,
Lovely maid!--she wept,
And her tearful eye
On the traitor kept.
Never is the sun
Brighter than in June:
Love can never see
Twice its burning noon.

X.

_Perestan’ stonatæ Kukushechka._

Listen yet a while, thou cuckoo dear!
Call not, call not thou so sadly there!
For without thy notes my heart is torn,
Sicken’d, and dejected, and forlorn!
For the sun his lovely face has shrouded,
Frowning sits he in his palace clouded,
And the lovely maid is full of grief,
And that grief will never find an end--
Never find an end--for how can she,
How can she forget her bosom’s friend?
Not an hour--not even a moment--he,
He is present at the dawn of day,
At the nightfall--eve--and morning’s ray.
O he left the lovely maiden--he
Left the maiden for a little week--
For a week--but six months sped away--
Six long months--’twas an eternity.

XI.

_Chernovrovoi, chernoglazoi._

Hazel-eyebrow’d, hazel-eyed,
Thou audacious boy,
Why hast thou bewitch’d my heart,
And to grief betray’d?
Can the summer sun be cold,
Can the light be shade,
Can the heart exist on earth
Uninspired by love?
Does the sunshine cease to smile
When the floweret fades?
Is the heart untouch’d by love
When the heart is sad?

’Tis no lawless love that dwells
In my inner heart:
I will fly and seek my mate,
Like the bird in spring.
I will show him all his gifts,
Every kerchief sent;
He shall see those kerchiefs steam
With my burning tears!
On thy bosom dry them, dry
Those hot, burning tears;
Or commingle them with thine,
They will sweeter flow.

Hear! on the damp hedge a noise,
Snow-clouds on the field--
Stormy winds are gathering round,
Broken is the way.
Tarry in thy little cage,
O thou gentle bird,
Thou canst open not with tears
Yonder prison, dear!
Tell to thy affianced now
Some old tale of joy.

Never alone should a lovely maid
Wander across the field;
Never the maiden’s wandering eye
Should the handsome swains pursue;
Never the maid should dare to love,
To love the handsome swain:
But the maid should watch her tender heart
With ever-present care.

XII.

_Pover’kh dubchika._

On an oak there sate
A turtle with his mate--
There in amorous meeting
One another greeting,
Each with flapping wing
All its joy repeating.
Swift a vulture sprung,
Eagle-eyed and young,
And he bore away
That poor turtle gray--
That poor turtle gray,
With his ruby feet,
On the oak-tree wood
Spilt the turtle’s blood:
All the plumage soft
O’er the meadow driven;
All his down aloft
Borne by winds of heaven.

O how desolate
Sat the mourning mate;
How she groan’d and sigh’d
While her turtle died.
‘Weep not--why complain,
Little turtle, love?’
Said the vulture then
To the widow’d dove,
‘O’er the azure sea
I will bring to thee
Flocks of turtles, where
Thou shalt choose thy dear,
Choose thy lover sweet,
Choose the brightest, best,
With a fair gray breast,
And with ruby feet.’

‘Fly not, murderous bird!
O’er the azure sea!’
Thus the dove was heard
Answering mournfully:
‘Bring no flocks to me
O’er the azure sea;
Can their presence be
Comfort to my breast?
Will they bring to me
The father of my nest?’

XIII.

_Tĭ prokodish’ dorogaja._

Ah! thou hurriest by the convent,
My beloved one!
Ah! the convent where the wretched monk
Lives despairing.
’Twas by force he was conducted here,
And devoted!
O remove this hood, my dearest one,
O remove it!
Take away this frock, my fairest one,
I beseech thee.
Lay thy soft--O lay thy snowy hand
On my bosom;
Feel my heart--how my throbbing heart
Beats and trembles
With the flowing blood entangled,
Deeply sighing!
From thy countenance of gladness
Tears of sorrow
Drop! Come, contemplate with pity
My fate’s darkness;
I will ask not for forgiveness
Of my errors,
But that thou mayst love me--love me,
Thou, my angel!

THE END.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The versification of the above song is so singular, and at first sight involved, that I doubted if I ought to preserve it. It is not without harmony, and, when the accent is caught, it will, I imagine, be deemed musical.

˘ ˘ ¯ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯ ˘,
˘ ˘ ¯ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘

[2] Taper burning before a saint.

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columns, and therefore contain several thousand facts, which, with
the necessary repetitions of words, would fill each a large volume.
They appear to be compiled with a degree of care which entitles them
to our warmest commendation, and in their typography they rank among
the best specimens of the art.”--_Monthly Magazine._ See also the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_, _Literary Chronicle_, &c. &c.

The SECRETARY’S ASSISTANT; exhibiting the various and most correct Modes of Superscription, Commencement, and Conclusion of Letters to Persons of every Degree of Rank; including the Diplomatic, Clerical, and Judicial Dignitaries; with Lists of the Foreign Ambassadors and Consuls. Also, the Forms necessary to be used in Applications or Petitions to the King in Council, Houses of Lords and Commons, Government Offices, Public Companies, &c. &c. By the Author of the Peerage Chart, &c. Price 5s. extra boards. Second edition.

“This work will prove highly useful to young correspondents, and even
afford information to those whose avocations or connexions require
their occasional correspondence with persons of superior rank. The
compiler seems to have used considerable diligence in ensuring
accuracy.”--_Gentleman’s Magazine._

“This little work is a desirable appendage to the writing-desk, and
fully enables its possessor to fulfil the precepts delivered to us in
the Scriptures:--‘Give unto every man his proper title, lest he be
offended, and ye betray your ignorance.’”--_New Monthly Magazine._

“The Secretary’s Assistant is an infallible guide, and we give it our
hearty recommendation.”--_Literary Chronicle._

VALPERGA; or, The LIFE and ADVENTURES of CASTRUCCIO, PRINCE of LUCCA. By the Author of Frankenstein. In Three Volumes, 12mo. price 21s. boards.

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thousands of works of a similar description, that have had some
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HIGHWAYS and BYWAYS; or, TALES of the ROAD-SIDE, picked up in the French Provinces. By a WALKING GENTLEMAN. Octavo, price 13s. boards.