Part 2

Secretly the mighty Kazbek At this warning shook, And, in trouble, towards the nor’ward Cast a hurried look. As he looks, in perturbation, Filled with anxious care, He beholds a strange commotion, Hears a tumult there. Lo! from Ural to the Danube, To the mighty stream, Tossing, sparkling in the sunlight, Moving regiments gleam; Glancing wave the white-plumed helmets Like the prairie grass, While, ’mid clouds of dust careering, Flashing Uhlans pass. Crowded close in serried phalanx War battalions come; In the van they bear the standards, Thunders loud the drum; Streaming forth like molten copper Batteries, rumbling, bound; Smoking just before the battle Torches flare around; Skilled in toils of stormy warfare, Heading the advance, See! a grey-haired general guides them, Threat’ning is his glance. Onwards move the mighty regiments With a torrent’s roar; Terrible, like gathering storm-clouds, East, due east, they pour.

Then, oppressed with dire forebodings, Filled with gloomy dreams, Strove Kazbek to count the foemen, Failed to count their streams. Glancing on his tribal mountains, Sadly gloomed the hill; Drew across his brows his mistcap, And for aye was still.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] This piece is famous for the description it contains of Russia’s progress eastward.

[5] Two mountains in the Caucasian range subdued by Russia with the rest of the Caucasus.

“_WHY._”

I’m sad, for, loving thee, I know full well That this world’s talk, with its calumnious spell, Will never spare thy fresh youth’s opening flower. For every happy day and sunny hour, Fate will exact in grief and tears his pay. I’m sad because I see my loved one gay!

_MOSCOW._

Moscow, I love thee with a filial love, Strong, burning, tender, which a Russian knows! I love the holy gleam thy brows above, Thy battled Kremlin in its calm repose. In vain the foreign Potentate[6] essayed, Great Russian giant of a thousand years, To cope with thee, and, by deceit betrayed, To make thee bow thy soul to craven fears. In vain the Stranger spurred; you reared; he fell! The world grew silent ’neath his mighty spell; Whilst thou alone didst live, my stately one, Thou heir to glories ours, and ours alone! Thou livest still, and every stone of thine Doth tell of generations tales divine.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Napoleon.

FROM PUSHKIN.

⁂

I wander down the noisy streets, I enter crowded fanes, I join in youthful revelries, I give my fancy reins.

I say, “The years are flying fast, And seen we scarce are here, Before we reach eternal tombs; For each the hour is near.”

I glance upon the lonely oak, The patriarch of the wood, And think, “He’ll live through _my_ brief day, He through my father’s stood.”

I fondly kiss the little child, And, kissing, think, “Good-bye! I’m giving up my place to you. You bloom; ’tis mine to die.”

Thus every day, thus every hour, I’m wont with thought to spend, And strive to guess the birthday-date Of my approaching end.

Ah! where will Fate send Death to me? Abroad? in war? on deep? Or will a neighbouring valley hold My cold dust in its keep?

Yet, though I know my lifeless form Must rot where’er I die, I’d fondly wish near my loved home, In my own land, to lie.

There, round the entrance to the grave, Let young life freely play, And careless Nature calmly smile With ageless beauty gay!

_ANACREONTIC._

We know the steed of mettle By the breed-marks branded on it; We know the haughty Highlander By his plumed and towering bonnet; And I know the happy lovers By the love-light in their eyes, Where, its tale of joyance telling, The languid flame doth rise.

(_TO HIS WIFE._)

No! not for me the wild tumultuous gladness, The rapturous rush, the transports, and the madness, The moans, the cries, the young Bacchante makes, When, clinging close in coilings like a snake’s, With wounding kiss, and gush of hot caresses, For the last moments’ thrills she quiveringly presses.

Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me, And happy I--distracted more by thee-- When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace, You press me softly in your meek embrace; Modestly cold, to love with passion fraught You scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught; Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last, As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.

⁂

Let me not lose my senses, God; Better the pilgrim’s scrip and rod, Or toil and hunger sad. Not that I prize this mind of mine, Or that my reason to resign I should not be right glad, If only then they’d set me free. At large! How sportively I’d flee To where the dark wood gleams! I’d sing in raving ecstasies, Forgetting self in fantasies Of changeful wondrous dreams. To the wild waves I’d lend an ear, And glancing upward, full of cheer, Would scan the open sky; And strong and free I’d rush amain, A whirlwind sweeping o’er the plain, Crashing through woods I’d fly. But there’s the rub! You lose your sense-- Are dreaded like a pestilence, And clapped in prison drear. They chain you to the idiot’s yoke, And, through the cage-bars, to provoke The wild beast they draw near. No more the nightingale to hear At midnight singing sweet and clear, Nor greenwood’s rustling strains, But only brother-madmen’s cries, The nightly keeper’s blasphemies, And shrieks, and clang of chains.

⁂

I’ve overlived aspirings, My fancies I disdain; The fruits of hollow-heartedness, Sufferings alone remain.

’Neath cruel storms of Fate, Withers my crown of bay, A sad and lonely life I lead, Waiting my latest day.

Thus, struck by latter cold, While howls the wintry wind, Trembles upon the naked bough The last leaf left behind.

_PETER THE GREAT._

With autocratic hand He boldly sowed the light; He did not scorn his native land-- He knew her destined might. A carpenter, a seaman, A scholar, hero, he, With mighty genius on the throne, A labourer was incessantly.

_THE PROPHET._

By spiritual thirst opprest, I hied me to the desert dim, When lo! upon my path appeared The holy six-winged seraphim. My brow his fingers lightly pressed, Soothing my eyelids into rest: Open my inward vision flies, As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes. He touched my ears, and they were filled With sounds that all my being thrilled. I felt a trembling fill the skies, I heard the sweep of angels’ wings, Beneath the sea saw creeping things, And in the valleys vines arise. Over my lips awhile he hung, And tore from me my sinful tongue-- The babbling tongue of vanity. The sting of serpent’s subtlety Within my lips, as chilled I stood, He placed, with right hand red with blood. Then with a sword my bosom cut, And forth my quivering heart he drew; A glowing coal of fire he put Within my breast laid bare to view. As corpse-like on the waste I lay, Thus unto me God’s voice did say-- “Prophet, arise! confess My Name; Fulfil My will; submit to Me! Arise! go forth o’er land and sea, And with high words men’s hearts inflame!”

⁂

Play, my Kathleen; No sorrow know. The Graces flowers Around thee throw. Thy little cot They softly swing, And bright for thee Dawns life’s fresh spring. For all delights Thou hast been born; Catch, catch wild joys, In life’s young morn! Thy tender years To love devote; While hums the world, Love my pipe’s note.

_A MONUMENT._[7]

I’ve raised myself no statue made with hands; The People’s path to it no weeds will hide. Rising with no submissive head, it stands Above the pillar of Napoleon’s pride. No! I shall never die; in sacred strains My soul survives my dust, and flies decay-- And famous shall I be, while there remains A single Poet ’neath the light of day. Through all great Russia will go forth my fame, And every tongue in it will name my name; And by the nation long shall I be loved, Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved; Because I strove to serve them with my song, And called forth mercy for the fallen throng. Hear God’s command, O Muse, obediently, Nor dread reproach, nor claim the Poet’s bay; To praise and blame alike indifferent be, And let fools say their say!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Like our Shakespeare, Pushkin knew his own merits.

_THE POET._

Until Apollo calls the Bard To share the holy sacrifice, Plunged in the petty cares of life The Poet’s spirit lies.

Silent and still his sacred lyre, His soul to sleep a prey, Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seems More worthless, p’raps, than they.

But once the sacred summons rings And strikes his eager ears, The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused, On upward pinion steers.

Then earthly pleasures cease to charm; He scorns the babbling crowd; No more beneath their Idol’s feet His haughty head is bowed.

He flies--and wild and stern his moods, His notes, now grave, now gay-- To shores where lonely billows play, To depths of whispering woods.

FROM NADSON.

⁂

Pity the stately cypress trees; How freshly green they spring! Ah! why amidst their branches, child, Have you put up your swing? Break not a single fragrant bough. Oh, take thy swing away To heights where thick acacias bloom; Mid dusty olives play! Thence you can see the Ocean, And, as your swing ascends, Through greening boughs a sunny glimpse The sea in laughter sends Of white sails in the distance dim, Of white gulls far away, Of white flakes foaming on the sands, A fringe of snowy spray.

FROM NEKRASOF.

_TE DEUM._

In our village there’s cold and there’s hunger; Through the mist the sad morn rises chill; Tolls the bell--the parishioners calling From afar to the church on the hill; Austere and severe and commanding Pealed that dull tone thro’ the air. I spent in the church that wet morning; I can never forget the scene there. For there knelt the village hamlet, Young and old in a weeping crowd; To be saved from the grievous famine The people prayed aloud. Such woe I had seldom witnessed, Such agony of prayer, And unconsciously I murmured, “O God, the people spare!”

* * * * *

“Spare their friends, too, in Thy mercy! Oh, hear our heartfelt cry! For those who strove to free the serf We lift the prayer on high; For those who bore the battle’s brunt And lived to win the day, For those who’ve heard the serf’s last song, To Thee, O God, we pray.”

_THE PROPHET._

Ah! tell me not he prudence quite forgot; That he himself for his own fate’s to blame. Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot Both serve the good and save himself from flame.

But men he loved with higher, broader glow; His soul for worldly honours did not sigh; For self alone he could not live below, But for the sake of others he could die.

Thus thought he--and to die, for him, was gain. He will not say that “life to him was dear;” He will not say that “death was useless pain;” To him, long since, his destiny was clear.

⁂

Offer my Muse a friendly hand, For I can sing no other song. Who feels no woe, nor flames at wrong, Loves not his Fatherland.

_DREAM._

I dreamt that, standing on a height, I wished to plunge me in the sea, When, lo! a spirit of peace and light, This wondrous song sang unto me: ‘Await the spring! I’ll soon be here;’ I’ll say, ‘Again let manhood rise!’ The mist from clouded brows I’ll clear, And dreary dreams from heavy eyes. Back to your Muse her voice I’ll give, And once again you’ll find the days All blessed--as you bind the sheaf-- Reaping your unmown upland ways.

_A SICK MAN’S JEALOUSY._

A heavy cross, the lot Fate laid upon her-- “Suffer! be silent! weep not! feign the smile!” And he, to whom her love, her youth, her will, Her all, she’d given, her torturer proved the while.

For years no greeting with a friend knew she; Subdued, in sadness, and in trembling fear, Bitter, unreasoning, sarcastic jeers, Without a murmur, ’twas her lot to hear.

“Hush! tell me not you’ve lost your youth for me-- That you’re distracted by my jealousy; Nay, tell me not! My grave is close at hand, While you are fresher than spring’s blossoms be.

“That day, the day when you at first loved me, And heard from me, ‘I love,’ in whispered breath, Curse not that day! The grave is near for me! I will right all, redeem all, by my death.

“Cease! Tell me not the days for you are sad; This invalid a jailor cease to name. For me remains the cold gloom of the grave; For thee the embraces of another flame.

“Full well I know thou dost another love. To spare, to wait, this seemed a tedious plan. Oh, wait awhile! my grave is very near! Let Fate end that which Fate in me began!”

Such cruel, torturing, insulting words-- Lovely, yet pale as chiselled marble--she In silence heard, and only wrung her hands. What could she answer to such jealousy?

_THE LANDLORD OF OLD TIMES._

(_Loquitur._)

BEFORE THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SERFS.

To whom I like I mercy show, And whom I like I kill; My fist--my only constable, My only law--my will. A blow from which the sparkle flits, A blow that knocks the teeth to bits, A blow that breaks the jaw!

_After the Emancipation of the Serfs._

The mighty chain is snapped in twain, Is snapped and bounds asunder. The landlords clutch one broken end; At t’other peasants blunder.

* * * * *

The fields remain unploughed and bare; The seed is left unsown; No trace of order anywhere, O mother-land, our own! Not for ourselves thus sorrow we; We grieve, O native land, for thee!

* * * * *

Oh, true-believing peasantry! Russia’s your mother small; The Tsar’s your little father. And that for you is all!

_THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER._

Then up there comes a veteran, With medals on his breast; He scarcely lives, but yet he strives To drink with all the rest. “A lucky man, am I,” he cries, And thus to prove the fact he tries. “In what consists a soldier’s luck? Pray, listen while I tell. In twenty fights, or more, I’ve been, And yet I never fell. And, what is more, in peaceful times Full meal I never knew; Yet, all the same, I _have_ contrived Not to give Death his due. Again, for sins both great and small, Full many a time they’ve me With sticks unmercifully flogged, Yet I’m alive, you see!”

FROM MAIKOF.

_A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM._

For a long time last night I for sleep vainly yearned. I arose, my room window wide throwing; The night with its silence oppressed me, and burned, O’er me odours intoxicant blowing.

Of a sudden the hedge ’neath my window-sill shook; My curtain blew back with a shimmer; And in floated a youth with a beaming look, Just as if from the moonlight a glimmer.

Gliding up to my couch, came my wonderful guest, Whispered he, as a smile his lips parted, “Why from me, with your cheek ’neath the pillow prest, Like a startled wee fish, have you darted?

“Look up! I’m a god--god of visions and dreams, Secret friend of the innocent maiden; And for thee, my own queen, for the first time, I ween, With a bliss from on high come I laden!”

He spoke--and his hands my face lovingly seek; From its nook he it tenderly presses; Then a burning kiss fell on the curve of my cheek, And his lips sought my lips in caresses.

Neath the breath of his mouth my strength seemed to have flown, From my breast unclaspt arms I extended, And there breathed in my ears, “You’re my own! you’re my own!” Distant notes, with harp’s melody blended!

Swiftly glided the hours; when I opened my eyes, Rosy dawn through my chamber was streaming; Alone, locks dishevelled, I trembling arise, And I know not the drift of my dreaming.

_WHO WAS HE?_

A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT.

Upon the mighty Neva’s bank, Along the winding woodland way, A Horseman rode, in forest wilds Of elm, of pine, of mosses grey.

Before him rose a Fisher’s hut; Beneath a pine, by the blue stream, An aged, bearded Fisherman Was mending his boat’s broken beam.

The Horseman said, “Grandsire! Good-day! God help thee, friend! how liveth thou? Doth thou catch much? and tell me, pray, Where doth thou sell thy takings now?”

The old man answered sullenly, “Are fishes in the river few? And other market have I none, Except the town, there, close to you.

“And how am I to fish to-day? What kind of turmoil’s here, you see! You fight; and, in the fight, a shell Has smashed my fishing-boat for me!”

The Horseman bounded from his horse, Without a word the tools he grasped; And in a twinkling planked the boat, The rudder in the stern set fast.

“See, now, old friend, thy boat’s all right! Out on the water boldly set; And, in the name of Peter’s luck, Cast forth into the deep thy net.”

He vanished. Mused the stern old man: “I wonder who the de’il was he! In every inch he looked a king, But plied the hatchet splendidly.”

_THE EASTER KISS._[8]

Soon “the Sun-bright Feast-day” cometh, I will claim my Easter kiss. Others, then, will stand around us; Pray, my Dora, mark you this!

Just as if I never kissed you, Blushing red before the rest, _You_ must kiss, with downcast eyelids; _I_ will kiss, with smile represt.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] It is the custom in Russia for all friends meeting on Easter morning (known as “Sun-bright Feast-day”) to exchange kisses three times in the name of the Trinity.

_ON LOMONOSSOEF._[9]

God chose him from his earliest years; Revealed, ’mid glittering icebergs stood, In northern light, in gleam of stars, In roar of wave, in hum of wood, And bade him leave his Fisher’s net, And led him forth from town to town, That “Rus”[10] to him from gloomy cot To sparkling palace, might be known; And led him to famed Western climes, That there his genius might obtain All knowledge, from the earliest times Made known to mighty chosen men; That, from their torch of knowledge, he Might light his own, and, with right hand Uplifted high that all might see, Illume with it his native land.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Lomonossoef--the first great Russian scholar--was the son of an Archangel fisherman.

[10] Ancient name of Russia.

_PROPRIETY._

Ferdinand, the King, was courtly! Pink of nice refinement he; All the naked plasts of Venus, Placed he under lock and key.

But the Herculean statues, Left he in their places bare! Men he did not mind offending; Hurt the ladies? He’d not dare!

_THE SINGER._

Beautiful I’m not, I know; Useless I in fight; How to men and maids am I, Such a dear delight? Songs, like sounds that ’mid strings stray, Fill this breast of mine, Smiling round my lips they play, In my eyes they shine!

_A LITTLE PICTURE._

AFTER THE PROCLAMATION OF THE 19TH FEB., 1861, FREEING THE SERFS.

See, in peasant’s cottage, flickering Shines a little fire, Where, around a little maiden, Draws a circle nigher.

And from word to word her finger Slowly pointing leads, As, with effort, to the peasants She a paper reads.

Deep in thought, intently listening, They a silence keep; Save when some one bids the women Hush the babes to sleep.

Mothers soothe their crying infants With the teething toy, While they, too, to catch the reading All their ears employ.

Seated in the chimney corner Now for many years, With bent head the grandsire gazes, Though he nothing hears.

Is the maiden clever, that they Thus to her give heed? Nay! but simply in that household She alone could read:

And her lot it was to read out, To the peasants old, The glad news of longed-for freedom, Which the paper told.

The full meaning of the message Knew not she nor they; But all, darkly, felt the dawning Of a better day.

Brothers! see, the day-dawn flushes! Darkness yields its place, Sons of yours, ere long, will look on Daylight face to face.

More and more let darkness lighten! Day arise in might! Even now, in vision, see I Rays of rising light.

They are shining on the forehead, Gleaming in the look, Of that thoughtful little maiden With her little book.

Freedom, Brothers! This is only First step on the way To the kingdom, where, in knowledge, Shines eternal day!

_THE ALPINE GLACIER._

Dank the darkness on the cliff-side; Faintly outlined from below, In their modest maiden gladness, Glaciers in the dawn’s blush glow.

What new life upon me blowing, Breathes from yonder snowy height, From that depth of limpid turquoise Flashing in the morning light?

There, I know, dread Terror dwelleth, Track of man there is not there; Yet my heart in answer swelleth To the challenge, “Come thou here!”

_THE MOTHER._

Little sufferer--all on fire! All’s to him so trying! On my shoulder lean thy head, On my bosom lying! I will walk about with thee, Sleep, my own sweet dearie. Shall I tell a little tale? “_Once there lived a fairy_”-- No? Thee likes not silly tales? P’r’aps a song will take thee! “_Pine-wood rustling dark and dank, Big fox, wee fox, wakes he. In the dark pine-wood will I_----” Is my own pet sleeping? “_Gather blackberries for thee Brimful baskets heaping. In the dark pine-wood will I_----” Hush! he fast is sleeping. Open wide his feverish lips, Like a wee bird, keeping.

“_In the dark pine-wood will I_,” Walks the mother, singing-- Till the long dark night declines, Back the day-dawn bringing. Singing--while her weary arms With dull pain are tingling-- Walks the mother; with her sighs Frequent tears are mingling; And scarce stirs the restless child, Tossing in its fever, Ere again that song resounds, Soft and low as ever.

With thy scythe depart, O Death, Spare the tender blossom! Fierce the fight ere she will yield Baby from her bosom. With her whole soul will she shield, E’en though sore affrighted, That mysterious flame of life Which from her was lighted, For scarce rose that little flame, Ere to her revealed was What of love,--of wondrous power,-- In her breast concealed was.

_THE KISS REFUSED._