Part 3
I would kiss you, lover true! But I fear the moon may spy; Little bright stars watch us too. Little star might fall from sky To the blue sea, telling all! To the oars the sea will tell, Oars, in turn, tell Fisher Eno-- Him whom Mary loveth well-- And, when Mary knows a thing, All the neighbourhood will know, How by moonlight, in the garden, Where the fragrant flowers grow, I caressed, and fondly kissed thee, While the silver apple-tree Shed its blooms on you and me!
_THE SNOWDROP._
How pure and how sweet, Little snowdrop, you blow! While, by you peeped through, Fade the last streaks of snow. Thus our last tears stream For a sorrow gone by, While dawns the first dream Of a joy drawing nigh.
⁂
A smile and a tear, the sun and the shower, How sweet they flash and flow! Like sunlight clear, through the sparkling tear Shines thy soul, refreshed by woe.
FROM COUNT TOLSTOI.
_BELIEVE IT NOT._
Believe it not, when in excess of sorrow I murmur that my love for thee is o’er! When ebbs the tide, think not the sea’s a traitor-- He will return and love the land once more.
I still am pining, full of former passion, To thee, again, my freedom I’ll restore, E’en as the waves, with homeward murmur flowing, Roll back from far to the belovèd shore.
_THE SCOLDING._
Do not scold me so, my dear, Wrath with words so feebly matching! Such a scolding soothes my ear; I’m your words intent on catching; As they issue suddenly, Pouring forth in pretty prattling, What marvel that they sound to me Pearls on silver salver rattling!
FROM
VLADIMIR VLADISLAVLEF.
_REFLECTION._
Pressed cheek to cheek we stand before the glass, Wherein our forms reflected shine, Gloomy my glance; but thy alluring face With warmth and light illumines mine!
So on the bosom of the sleeping wave The moon smiles with reflected light, Full of the peace that dawns beyond the grave, Softening the darkness of the night.
_THE WOULD-BE NUN._
No, no! I can’t believe you! Cease, cease to prattle so Of single bliss, monastic vows, And prayerful life below!
No, no! I can’t believe you! That stately form divine, That breast, that neck, those breathing limbs To convent cell confine!
Yourself you don’t believe it! Your words your glance belies, And, full of other fancies, Protest those flashing eyes.
_THE SCHOOLBOY’S DEVIL._
You knew, of course, my special devil? His cunning and his boldness charmed; Pressed to my breast this sprite of evil I warmed.
At first he worried me with fear; I timid was, and mild, and young. My shoulders were too weak to bear His tongue.
Holding some mild traditions yet, I shook and trembled, oft, in awe, Till, lo! in him the Muse’s pet I saw.
He caught me, then, with flash of phrase, With living fantasies entranced, And wicked eyes from grave to gay He glanced!
With fiery speech well fused together, Our friendly union grew complete, Although at times with wintry weather We’d meet.
Designing once to cause his death, My fingers in a cross I twirled,[11] Out came his tongue; off in a breath He whirled.
But scarcely dawns the Eastern light, The nightly blackness scarce is o’er, Ere back he comes, my foe, my sprite, Once more.
How smart he’s grown! and well up, too, In Darwin’s and Descartes’ style! He knows the sex; nor strange to loo Meanwhile.
And chess he also right well knows, And often billiards is his fad-- At times about this game he grows Quite mad.
You knew him well, of course, of yore, He cunning was, and boldly charmed; I pressed him to my bosom’s core, And warmed.
Ah! have I tired my friendly sprite? His friendship’s flame has colder grown; He now forgets and leaves me quite Alone.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] _I.e._ made with the two first fingers and thumb, the sign of the Russian cross.
POPULAR SONG.
_THE GIPSY MAID._
I love thee! And believe it true! The while your gipsy maid avows That unto death she’ll love but you, While life’s blood in her bosom flows.
For you she’ll leave her home of old, She’ll follow you the wide world o’er. The gipsy’s love will ne’er grow cold Until the gipsy breathes no more.
Black bread, while meal to meal succeeds, Her passion ne’er will lull to sleep; One burning kiss is all she needs, Her gipsy blood its warmth will keep.
When time of trial draweth nigh, No burning tears will she outpour; Well skilled is she in misery-- ’Twill only make her love thee more.
No change which doth our being move A single pang to her can give; But change in him her soul doth love She hath no power to overlive.
FROM TYOUCHEF.
Scarce cooled from midday heat Sparkles the summer night; O’er sinful earth a threatening cloud Trembles, with lightnings bright. Heaven’s sleepy eyelids ope, And through each distant gleam, The threatening orbs of One above O’er earth to kindle seem.
_THE SPRING STORM._
I love the storm in early May, When spring’s first maiden thunder peals, And, laughing in its frolic play, Across the blue sky softly steals.
The little rumblings roll and ring; The rain-shower glistens; flies the dust; The rain-drop pearls in clusters cling, And golden gleams the fields encrust.
From hillside headlong speeds the rill, In groves the birds keep twittering, And chattering wood and murmuring hill Echo with joy the thundering.
PRINCE VYAZEMSKI.
_THE TROIKA._[12]
Speeds the troika, leaping, bounding, ’Neath the horsehoofs dust-clouds fly, While the little bells keep tinkling, Weeping, laughing merrily.
_Chorus._
Speed I, speed I, speed I to her Speed I to my well-beloved!
Down the road, with glad notes ringing, Echoes wide the joyous peal; Now afar they jingle clearly, Nor in muffled notes they steal.
_Chorus._
Sails the moon from out the cloudlets; Full reveals her luminous ring; And a rippling gleam of silver O’er the traveller’s face doth fling.
_Chorus._
Who and whence this nightly traveller? Is his distant journey done? For his own or other’s pleasure Speeds he through the dark alone?
_Chorus._
Who can tell! He still is far off; Plunged in cloud the moonbeams sweep, While afar on distant moorland Little bells are lulled to sleep.
_Chorus._
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Sledge or car with three horses harnessed abreast.
FROM LEBEDEF.
_THEODORA._
“So thou art he who yesterday Didst round the arena roam-- Thy rivals scourge? thy chariot smoked, Reeking with bloody foam.
“Now thou art mine! Upon this couch Recline and yield to me, Until the morning’s rosy light My palace windows see.”
“Ah, Theodora, ne’er before Have I thy threshold passed; Thy cups of gold amaze my sight, Thy fretted ceilings vast.
“Yet I know all. Through our stern land The talk of thee has sped; How every night a new Elect Appears beside this bed.
“How, till the dawn, with burning kiss The lips of lovers sting; While to the folds of Eastern stuffs The Eastern odours cling.
“But I, a simple country clown, A common clod, who sport In games with Death, am all unused To splendours of a Court.
“Thy pardon! But it seems to me That burning Lust doth stream In this blue odour’s upward curl, From yon bright marble’s gleam.
“Nay, Theodora, let me go! And keep thy whim’s reward For nobles of the Bosphorus! For slaves----”
“Enough! Ho, Guard!”
FROM H.
_THE LIE’S EXCUSE._
I lie, whene’er as if by chance I fix on thee my gaze; I lie, whene’er my saddened glance Upon another strays.
I lie, whene’er I strive to speak To thee with unconcern; For while to laugh and joke I seek, My heavy heart doth burn.
I lie, whene’er I feign to shun The meeting I have sought; While hanging on each word of thine I strive to seem distraught.
’Tis all a lie! Yet for the lie I scarce reproached can be, When I declare, ’fore God I swear, How great my love for thee.
FROM DERJAVIN.
_THE STREAM OF TIME._
The stream of time, with onward sweep, Bears off men’s works, all human things, And plunges o’er Oblivion’s steep Peoples and kingdoms with their kings. If for a space amidst the swirl The lyre or trumpet some sustain, They’re swept at last in ceaseless whirl, And none escape Fate’s common main.
NATIONAL SONGS.
_MARRIAGE._
No frost, and the flowers would bloom Even in wintry weather. No fret would be mine, if I And grief did not dwell together; Ne’er should I sit, as I sit Here, with a sob in my bosom, Gazing on open fields-- Fields with never a blossom! Then to my father said I, “Marry me, sir, to my equal; Don’t think of splendours for me: What meaneth rank in the sequel? Don’t look for spacious abodes; I have no wish to be wealthy. Give me a husband that’s true; Give me a husband that’s healthy.”
_THE GRAIN._
A grain adown the velvet strolled--glory! No purer pearl could be--glory! The pearl against a ruby rolled--glory! Most beautiful to see--glory! Big is the pearl by ruby’s side--glory! Well for the bridegroom with his bride--glory!
_WEDDING GEAR._
The blacksmith from the forge comes he-- Glory! And carries with him hammers three-- Glory! Oh, blacksmith, blacksmith, forge for me-- Glory! A wedding crown of gold,[13] bran-new!-- Glory! A golden ring, oh, make me, do!-- Glory! With what is left a gold pin too!-- Glory! The crown on wedding day I’ll wear-- Glory! On golden ring my troth I’ll swear-- Glory! The pin will bind my veil to hair-- Glory!
FOOTNOTES:
[13] During the wedding ceremony in Russia, the bride and bridegroom wear metal crowns.
FROM DOROSHKEVICH.
_SEBASTOPOL._
What wondrous heroes thou didst rear Behind thy ramparts roughly-raised! Europe, the wide world far and near, Thy glorious gallantry amazed.
Thine annals, to posterity As bright examples, will recall Thy long heroic agony; Nay, more--thy great heroic fall.
FROM POLONSKI.
_ON SKOBELEF._
He stood alone! Around, from East, from West, By Russia watched from far, A giant--nay! a god of war. Beneath the hostile fire he stood Unmoved, in reckless hardihood. His snow-white vest on battle-field Seemed covered by St. Michael’s shield. And now his life is reft; that strength Broken at length....
FROM KRYLOF.
_FABLE._
Whene’er companions don’t agree, They work without accord; And naught but trouble doth result, Although they all work hard.
One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab, Resolved a load to haul. All three were harnessed to the cart, And pulled together all. But though they pulled with all their might, That cart-load on the bank stuck tight.
The Swan pulled upwards to the skies, The Crab did backwards crawl, The Pike made for the water straight: This proved no use at all.
Now, which of them was most to blame ’Tis not for me to say, But this I know--the load is there Unto this very day.
CHILD’S SONG.
_LITTLE BIRDIE._
The first in the spring, From its earliest day, To God do I sing; He feeds me alway. I sow not, nor spin, I toil not for food; I love the sweet spring-- Blithe, then, is my mood. My nest’s in the field; I live in the sky; I skim o’er the meads; Through flower-beds I fly. At times o’er the streams Like arrow I sweep; The swiftest of steeds Can’t pace with me keep. And yet I am caught By one little grain, And thus, for my life, A prisoner remain. For grain, as a snare, With cunning is set; One glance--and lo! there, The bird’s in the net.
FROM LAL.
_ADVICE._
They say a Greek philosopher Thought long, both night and day, How for the cure of human woes To find the surest way.
“The bad,” he found, “without a doubt, Dwelt but in woman’s ways.” So he advised, most earnestly, “Don’t on a woman gaze.”
Now, I before you put the case-- Did he find right or wrong? If he found right, then his advice Was hardly worth a song.
To those who wish with certainty From marriage bonds to fly, I give this counsel, “Constantly On women keep an eye.”
_THE TITULYÁRNYI SOVÉTNIK._[14]
He----was a Ninth-class Councillor, And she----a General’s daughter. He timidly declared his love; She spurned him when he sought her.
Then went that Ninth-class Councillor, And drowned his grief in drinking; And through the vinous fumes all night That General’s girl came blinking--blinking.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Titular councillor = Ninth-class (civil rank) in the Russian Table of Precedence, corresponding to rank of Captain in the Army or Lieutenant in the Navy.
FROM K. P.
(H.I.H. GRAND PRINCE CONSTANTINE CONSTANTINOVICH.)
No! I can ne’er believe, no recollection Of life--beyond the grave we’ll bear away; That Death doth end our joy and our affliction, And shed deep sleep on our forgotten day?
Can eyes, when opened there, forget their seeing? Can ears their power of hearing lose for aye? In grave’s dark night can memories of past being Be by the ransomed spirit cast away?
Did Raphael there forget his great “Madonna,” What time he woke to light in realms above? Did Shakespeare ne’er recall his Hamlet’s honour? His Requiem hath Mozart ceased to love?
It cannot be! Nay! all that’s good, that’s holy, We’ll live again after this life’s good-bye; And we shall _not_ forget, but, without passion, lowly, We’ll love again, merged in the Deity.
_TO THE POET MAIKOF._
Thy soul entrancing lyre, Thy songs of purity, Have borne to us but notes of Good, Peace, Hope, and Charity.
To please the fickle crowd, False notes thou ne’er didst sing; Nor to the passions of the mob Thy sacred freedom fling.
Thou’st sung for fifty years, Crowned with immortal bay, A song to raise the soul of man And cheer his upward way.
Oh, could these chords prolong To us thy legacy, With what unrivalled aims endowed Would our true poets be!
FROM SHENSHIN (FET.).
_A RUSSIAN SCENE._
Wondrous the picture, How homelike to me!-- Distant plain whitening, Full moon on the lea; Light--in the heaven’s high, And snow flashing bright; Sledge in the distance In its lonely flight.
_TRYST._
A whisper, a gentle sigh, Trills of the nightingale; The silver flash of the brook, Asleep in the sleepy vale. The shadows and shine of night-- Shadows in endless race; The sweep of a magical change Over a sweet young face. The blush of a rose in the mist, An amber gleam on the lawn; A rush of kisses and tears-- And oh, “the Dawn! the Dawn!”
FROM PLESHEEF.
_SPRING._
Ah! who art thou, fair maid, with upland flowers Twined in the glossy silk of golden hair, With smile sunbright, with eyes the dove in hue, With raylike raiment spun from upper air? Who gifted thee with deep mysterious power To heal the aching heart of human woe? At thy approach delights that long lay dead Revive, and once again with glad life glow. To honour thee a hymn doth Nature raise; The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend; And pinewoods dark, shimmering in every spray, To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend.
I’m but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high To weary souls a draught of peace to bring, To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity; I’m but a Stranger-Guest--they call me “Spring.”
_PASSION._
Ah! could I but utter in song All the anguish which robs me of peace, Thy sorrow of soul would be stilled, Thy murmur of doubting would cease! I would breathe forth my life, my beloved, As I told all my pain for thy sake; And, bursting in passionate song, My heart in its fulness would break.
FROM E. KYLAEF.
_BILLOWS._
Rushing on, rushing on, speed the billows uproarious, Breathing hard o’er the depths of the sea; They roll and they rage, full of majesty glorious, In broad ridges, boundless and free-- Speeding on to the shore where the tall cliffs are gleaming, Glancing down o’er the deep of the blue; So my thoughts from afar, whether waking or dreaming, Stream ever, dear country, to you.
FROM COUNT T.
_NO HALF-MEASURES._
If you love--then, _love_ without reason; If you threaten--don’t threaten in play; If you strike--strike straight from the shoulder; If you storm--to full fury give way; If you battle--then, do it with boldness; If you punish--let punishment tell; If you pardon--then, pardon in earnest; If you feast--then, be sure you feast well!
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.