I through gay and brilliant places
Long my wayward course had bound,
Oft had gazed on beauteous faces,
But no loved one yet had found.
Careless, onward did I saunter,
Seeking no beloved to see,
Rather dreading such encounter,
Wishing ever to be free.
Thus from all temptation fleeing,
Hoped I long unchecked to rove,
'Till the fair Louisa seeing,--
Who can see her, and not love?
Sol, his splendid robes arrayed in,
Just behind the hills was gone,
When one eve I saw the maiden
Tripping o'er the verdant lawn.
Of a strange, tumultuous feeling,
As I gazed I felt the sway,
And, with brain on fire and reeling,
Homeward quick I bent my way.
Through my bosom rapid darting,
Love 'twas plain I could not brave,
And with boasted freedom parting,
I became Louisa's slave.
THE HUSBAND'S LAMENT.
BY P. PELSKY.
Parted now, alas! for ever
From the object of my heart,
Thus by cruel fate afflicted,
Grief shall be my only part,
I, bereft of her blest presence,
Shall my life in anguish spend,
Joy a stranger to my bosom,
Wo with every thought shall blend.
Double was my meed of pleasure
When in it a share she bore,
Of my pains, though keen and piercing,
Viewing her I thought no more.
All is past! and I, unhappy,
Here on earth am left alone,
All my transports now are vanished,
Blissful hours! how swiftly flown.
Vainly friends, with kind compassion,
Me to calm my grief conjure,
Vainly strive my heart to comfort,
It the grave alone can cure.
Fate one hope allows me only,
Which allays my bosom's pain--
Death our loving hearts divided,
Death our hearts can join again!
COUNSEL.
BY DMEETRIEFF.
Youth, those moments so entrancing,
Spend in sports and pleasures gay,
Mirth and singing, love and dancing,
Like a shade thou'lt pass away!
Nature points the way before us,
Friends to her sweet voice give ear,
Form the dances, raise the chorus,
We but for an hour are here.
Think the term of mirth and pleasure
Comes no more when once gone by,
Let us prize life's only treasure,
Blest with love and jollity.
And the bard all sorrows scorning,
Who, though old, still joins your ring,
With gay wreaths of flowers adorning
Crown him that he still may sing.
Youth, those moments so entrancing,
Spend in sports and pleasures gay,
Mirth and singing, love and dancing,
Like a shade thou'lt pass away!
STANZAS.
BY NELAIDINSKY.
He whose soul from sorrow dreary,
Weak and wretched, nought can save,
Who in sadness, sick and weary,
Hopes no refuge but the grave;
On his visage Pleasure beaming,
Ne'er shall shed her placid ray,
Till kind Fate, from wo redeeming,
Leads him to his latest day.
Thou this life preservest ever,
My distress and my delight!
And, though soul and body sever,
Still I'll live a spirit bright;
In my breast the heart that's kindled
Death's dread strength can ne'er destroy,
Sure the soul with thine that's mingled
Must immortal life enjoy!
That inspired by breath from heaven
Need not shrink at mortal doom,
To thee shall my vows be given
In this world and that to come.
My fond shade shall constant trace thee,
And attend in friendly guise,
Still surround thee, still embrace thee,
Catch thy thoughts, thy looks, thy sighs.
To divine its secret pondering,
Close to clasp thy soul 'twill brave,
And if chance shall find thee wandering
Heedless near my silent grave,
Even my ashes then shall tremble,
Thy approach relume their fire,
And that stone in dust shall crumble,
Covering what can ne'er expire!
ODE TO THE WARRIORS OF THE DON.
WRITTEN IN 1812, BY N.M. SHATROFF.
Sudden o'er Moscow rolls the dread thunder,
Fierce o'er his proud borders Don's torrents flow,
High swells each bosom, glowing with vengeance
'Gainst the base foe.
Scarce in loud accents spoke our good Monarch,
"Soldiers of Russia! Moscow burns bright,
Foemen destroy her,"--hundreds of thousands
Rush to the fight.
"Who dare oppose God? who oppose Russians?"
Cried the brave Hetman,--steeds round him tramp,--
"The Frenchman's ashes quickly we'll scatter,
Show us his camp!
"TSAR true-believing we are all ready,
Thy throne's defenders, each proud heart bent
By the assault th' invader's black projects
To circumvent.
"Russians well know the rough road to glory,
Rhine's banks by our troops soon shall be trod,
We fight for vengeance, for love of country,
And faith in God!
"BELIEVE and conquer, fear not for Russia,
Awful the blow the cross-bearer strikes,
Th'arkan 1 is dreadful, the sword unsparing,
Sharp are our pikes.
"Vain are Napoleon's skill, strength, and cunning,
Nor do his hosts fill us with despair,
For Michael 2 leads us, and Mary's 3 image
With us we bear.
"To horse, brothers, haste, the foe approaches,
Holy faith guides us, in God we trust,
Quick, true believers, rush to the onset,
God aids the just!
"Sternly rush on, friends, crush the vile Frenchman,
Firm be as mountains when tempests blow,
Oh! into Russia grant not the foul one
Further to go."
Don, broad and mighty, poured forth her children,
The world was amazed, pale with affright,
Napoleon abandoned his fame, and sought
Safety in flight.
On all sides alike pikes gleam around us,
Through air hiss arrows, cannons bright flash,
Bullets, like bees, in swarms fly terrific,
Mingling swords clash.
Not half a million of fierce invaders
Can meet the rage of Russia's attacks;
Not more than they the timid deer shrinks at
Sight of Cossacks.
O'er blood-drenched plains their red standards scattered,
Their arms abandoned, spoils left behind:
Death they now flee from, to loss of honour
Basely resigned.
Vainly they shun it, fruitless their cunning,
Jove's bird strikes down the blood-thirsty crow,
The fame and bones of Frenchmen in Russia
Alike lie low.
Thus th' ambitious usurper is vanquished,
Thus his legions destroyed as they flee,
Thus white-stoned Moscow, the first throned city,
Once more set free.
To God, all potent, let thanks be rendered,
Honoured our TSAR'S and each chieftain's name,
To th'Empire safety, to Don's brave offspring
Laurels and fame!
SOLITUDE.
BY MERZLIAKOFF.
Upon a hill, which rears itself midst plains extending wide,
Fair flourishes a lofty OAK in beauty's blooming pride;
This lofty oak in solitude its branches wide expands,
All lonesome on the cheerless height like sentinel it stands.
Whom can it lend its friendly shade, should Sol with fervour glow?
And who can shelter it from harm, should tempests rudely blow?
No bushes green, entwining close, here deck the neighbouring ground,
No tufted pines beside it grow, no osiers thrive around.
Sad even to trees their cheerless fate in solitude if grown,
And bitter, bitter is the lot for youth to live alone!
Though gold and silver much is his, how vain the selfish pride!
Though crowned with glory's laurelled wreath, with whom that crown divide?
When I with an acquaintance meet he scarce a bow affords,
And beauties, half saluting me, but grant some transient words.
On some I look myself with dread, whilst others from me fly,
But sadder still the uncherished soul when Fate's dark hour draws nigh;
Oh! where my aching heart relieve when griefs assail me sore?
My friend, who sleeps in the cold earth, comes to my aid no more!
No relatives, alas! of mine in this strange clime appear,
No wife imparts love's fond caress, sweet smile, or pitying tear;
No father feels joy's thrilling throb, as he our transport sees;
No gay and sportive little ones come clambering on my knees;--
Take back all honours, wealth, and fame, the heart they cannot move,
And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of love!
TO MY ROSE.
Bright queen of flowers, O! Rose, gay blooming,
How lovely are thy charms to me!
Narcissus proud, pink unassuming,
In beauty vainly vie with thee;
When thou midst Flora's circle shinest,
Each seems thy slave confessed to sigh,
And thou, O! loveliest flower, divinest,
Allur'st alone the passer's eye.
To change thy fate the thought has struck me,
Sweet Rose, in beauty, ah! how blest,
For fair Eliza I will pluck thee,
And thou shalt deck her virgin breast:--
Yet, there thy beauties vainly shining,
No more predominance will claim,
To lilies, all thy pride resigning,
Thou'lt yield without dispute thy fame.
TO CUPID.
Cupid, one arrow kindly spare,
'Twill yield me transport beyond measure,
I'll not be mean, by heaven I swear,
With Mary I'll divide the treasure.
Thou wilt not?--Tyrant, now I see
Thou lovest with grief my soul to harrow;
To her thou'st given thy quiver--for me
Thou hast not left a single arrow!
EVENING MEDITATIONS.
Nature in silence sank, and deep repose,
Behind the mountain, Sol had ceased to glare,
Timid the moon with modest lustre rose,
Willing as though my misery to share.
The past was quick presented to my mind,
A gentle languor calmed each throbbing vein,
My poor heart trembled as the leaves from wind,
My melting soul owned melancholy's reign.
Plain did each action of my life appear,
Each feeling bade some fellow feeling start,
On my parched bosom fell the flowing tear,
And cooled the burning anguish of my heart.
Moments of bliss, I cried, ah! whither flown?
When Friendship breathed to me her soothing sighs,
Twice have the fields with golden harvests shone,
And still her blest return stern Fate denies!
Cynthia, thou seest me lone my course pursue,
Hopeless here roving, grief my only guide,
Evenings long past thou call'st to Fancy's view,
Forcing the tear down my pale cheek to glide.
Friendless, of love bereft, what now my joy?
Void are my heart and soul, a prey to pain,
To love, to be beloved, can never cloy,
But all on earth besides, alas! is vain!
THE LITTLE DOVE.
BY DMETRIEFF.
The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day,
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved is far away.
He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,
The dove his lonesome state distresses,
And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.
From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.
Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!
At length upon the grass he threw him,
Hid in his wing his beak and wept,
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for ever slept.
His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
Flies from a distance home again,
Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
And bids him wake with sorrowing pain.
She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
Around and round the spot she goes,
Ah! charming Chloe's lost in anguish,
Her friend wakes not from his repose!
LAURA'S PRAYER.
As the harp's soft sighings in the silent valley,
To high heaven reaching, lifts thy pious prayer,
Laura, be tranquil! again with health shall nourish
Thy loved companion.
O! ye gods, behold fair Laura sunk in anguish,
Kneeling, O! behold her on the grassy hill,
Mild evening's sportive zephyrs gently embracing
Her golden ringlets.
Glist'ning with tears, her sad eyes to you she raises,
Her fair bosom heaving like the swelling wave,
Whilst in the solemn grove echo, clothed in darkness,
Repeats her accents.
"O! gods, my friend beloved give again health's blessings,
Faded are her cheeks now, dull her once bright eye,
In her heart no pleasure,--killed by cruel sickness,
As by heat flowers.
"But if your hard laws should bid her quit existence,
Grant then my sad prayer, with her let me too die,"--
Laura, be tranquil! thy friend thou'lt see reviving
Like spring's sweet roses.
THE STORM.
BY DERJAVIN.
As my bark in restless ocean
Mounts its rough and foaming hills,
Whilst its waves in dark commotion
Pass me, hope my bosom fills.
Who, when warring clouds are gleaming,
Quenches the destructive spark?
Say what hand, where safety's beaming,
Guides through rocks my little bark?
Thou Creator! all o'erseeing,
In this scene preserv'st me dread,
Thou, without whose word decreeing
Not a hair falls from my head.
Thou in life hast doubly blest me,
All my soul to thee's revealed,
Thou amongst the great hast placed me,
Be midst them my guide and shield!
TO MY HEART.
Why, poor heart, so ceaseless languish?
Why with such distresses smart?
Nought alleviates thy anguish,
What afflicts thee so, poor heart?
Heart, I comprehend not wrongly,
Thou a captive art confest,
Near Eliza thou beat'st strongly
As thou'dst leap into her breast.
Since 'tis so then, little throbber,
You and I, alas! must part,
I'd not be thy comfort's robber;
To her I'll resign thee, heart.
Yet the maid in compensation
Must her own bestow on me,
And with such remuneration
Never shall I grieve for thee.
But should she, thy sorrows spurning,
This exchange, poor heart, deny,
Then I'll bear thee, heart, though mourning,
From her far and hasty fly.
But, alas! no pain assuaging,
That would but increase thy grief;
If kind Death still not its raging,
Granting thee a kind relief.
TIME.
O! Time, as thou on rapid wings
Encirclest earth's extensive ball,
Fatal thy flight to worldly things,
Thy darts cut down and ruin all.
A cloud from us thy form conceals;
Enwrapt its gloomy folds among,
Thou mov'st eternity's vast wheels,
And with them movest us along.
The swift-winged days thou urgest on,
With them life's sand beholdest pass,
And when our transient hours are gone,
Thou smilest at their exhausted glass.
Against Time's look, when he but frowns,
All strength, and skill, and power, are vain;
He withers laurels, wreaths, and crowns,
And breaks the matrimonial chain.
As Time moves onward, far and wide
His restless scythe mows all away,
All feels his breath, on every side
All sinks, resistless, to decay.
To youth's gay bloom and beauty's charms
Mercy alike stern Time denies,
Like vernal flowers o'erwhelmed by storms,
Whate'er he looks at droops and dies.
Huge piles from earth his mighty hand
Sweeps to oblivion's empire dread,
What villages, what cities grand,
What kingdoms sink beneath his tread!
Heroes in vain, his gauntlet cast,
Oppose his stern and ruthless sway,
Nor armies brave, nor mountains vast,
Can thwart the devastator's way.
Thought strives, but fruitless, to pursue
The traces of Time's rapid flight,
Scarce Fancy gains one transient view,
He disappears and sinks in night.
Think, thou whom folly's dazzling glare
Of worldly vanities may blind,
Time frowns and all will disappear,
Nor gold a vestige leave behind.
And thou whom fierce distresses sting,
Thou by calamities low bowed,
Weep not, for Time the day will bring
That ranks the humble with the proud.
But, Time, thy course of ruin stay,
The lyre's sweet tones one moment hear,
By thee o'er earth is spread dismay,
Grief's sigh called forth, and pity's tear.
Yet, Time, thy speed the dread decree
Of retribution on thee brings,
Eternity will swallow thee,
Thy motion stop, and clip thy wings!
SONG.
Sweetly came the morning light,
When fair Mary blest my sight,
In her presence pleasures throng,
Louder swelled the birds their song,
Pleasanter the day became.
Not so radiant are Sol's rays,
When on darkest clouds they blaze,
As her look, so free from guile,
As fair Mary's tender smile,
As the smile of my beloved.
Not of dew the gems divine
Shine as Mary's beauties shine,
Not with hers the rose's dye
On the fairest cheek can vie,
None have beauty like to hers.
Mary's kiss as honey sweet,
Pure as streamlet clear and fleet,
Love inhabits her soft eyes,
Floats in all her soothing sighs,
Nought on earth so sweet as she.
Let us, Mary, now enjoy
Nature's charms without alloy,
Verdant lawn, and smiling grove;--
Brooks that babble but of love
Will beside us softer flow.
Let us seek the pleasant shade,
Sit in bowers by us arrayed
With gay flow'rets, where are heard
Songs of many a pleasant bird,
Which with rapture we will join.
In that sweet and lovely spot,
All the cares of earth forgot,
Thou, the comfort of my sight,
Thou, my glory, my delight,
Shalt my soul to peace allure.
SONG.
The shades of spring's delicious even
Invited all to soft repose,
I only sighed to listening heaven
In the still grove my bosom's woes.
My heart's distress had Fate completed,
Snatched from my sight my best beloved,
And echo's busy voice repeated
Sweet Mary's name where'er I roved.
Without her sad the days and dreary,
How cheerless drag life's moments on,
Of pleasure's tumults sick and weary,
All blissful thoughts for ever flown!
But still to me more keen the anguish,
With secret grief my heart must swell,
That her for whom I ceaseless languish
I dare not of my passion tell.
No hope my cruel pain disarming,
I live a prey to ceaseless wo,
And Mary, sweet, and fair, and charming,
How much I love her does not know.
How shall I calm this bosom's raging?
O! how alleviate its smart?
Her tender look, all grief assuaging,
Alone can cure my wounded heart.
SONG.
How blest am I thy charms enfolding,
Cheerful thy smile as May's fair light,
As Paradise thine eyes are bright,
I all forget when thee beholding,--
Thou canst not think how sweet thou art.
Thy absence fills my soul with anguish,
Beloved one! hopeless of relief
I count the mournful hours in grief,
My heart for thee doth ceaseless languish,--
Thou canst not think how sweet thou art!
TO MARY.
Vainly, Mary, dost thou pray me
Heedless of thy charms to live,
If thou'dst have me, fair, obey thee,
Thou another heart must give.
One with stern indifference steeling,
That could know thee and be free,
One that all thy virtues feeling,
Could exist removed from thee.
That in which thine image blooming,
Holds an empire all its own,
Which, though thou to grief art dooming,
Lives, fair maid, in thee alone;
Every thought to thee addresses,
Filled by thee with visions bright,
Even 'midst sorrows, pains, distresses,
Thou'rt its comfort, hope, delight.
I be faithless! love avowing,
To thee first I bent my knee,
Even with soul thy looks endowing,
First I knew it knowing thee.
Yes, my soul to thee returning,
Thine own gift do I restore,
Thou the offering proudly spurning,
I its charm can know no more.
Do not bid me, hope resigning,
My fond vows of love to cease,
How can I, in silence pining,
Cruel fair one, mar thy peace?
N O T E.
Of the following translation of Derjavin's Ode to God, universally esteemed as one of the sublimest effusions of the Russian Muse, I beg leave to say that my aim has been to render it into English as literally as the genius of our language would admit, without adding or suppressing a single thought, or amplifying a single expression, to accomplish which metrically would of course be impossible.
If I have succeeded, my readers will be better able to judge whether this Ode, after having been translated into the Japanese language, merited the great honour of being suspended, embroidered with gold, in the temple of Jeddo, than they can be by a perusal of the highly poetic effort of Dr. Bowring. For, whilst he has adhered to the structure of versification adopted in the original, and in some parts has given its sense with remarkable accuracy, in others he has been less fortunate; and in venturing to change the Trinitarian faith of Derjavin to suit his own notions of the unity of the Supreme Being, he has taken a liberty with his author which cannot but be deemed unwarrantable.
THE TRANSLATOR.
TO GOD.
BY DERJAVIN.
O! Thou, infinite in space,
Existing in the motion of matter,
Eternal amidst the mutations of time,
Without person, in three persons the Divinity!
The single and omnipresent spirit,
To whom there is neither place nor cause,
Whom none could ever comprehend,
Who fillest all things with thyself,
Embracest, animatest, and preservest them,
Thou whom we denominate God!
Although a sublime mind might be able
To measure the depths of ocean,
To count the sands, the rays of the planets,
To thee there is neither number nor measure!
Enlightened spirits, although
Proceeding from thy light,
Cannot penetrate thy judgments;
Thought scarce dare lift itself to thee;
It is lost in thy greatness,
Like the past moment in eternity.
Thou calledst chaos into existence,
Before time, from the abyss of eternity,
And eternity, existing prior to all ages,
Thou foundedst within thyself.
Constituting thyself of thyself,
By means of thyself shining from thyself,
Thou art the light from which light first flowed;
Creating all things by a single word,
Extending thyself throughout the new creation,
Thou wast, thou art, thou shalt be for ever!
Thou unitest within thyself the chain of beings,
Upholdest and animatest it,
Thou connectest the end with the beginning,
And through death bestowest life.
As sparks shoot forth and scatter themselves,
Thus suns are born of thee:
As, in a cold and clear winter's day,
Particles of frost scintillate,
Whirl about, reel, and glisten, 1
Even so do the stars in the abysses beneath thee!
Millions of lighted torches
Fly throughout infinite space,
They execute thy laws,
And shed life-creating rays.
But these fiery luminaries,
Or shining masses of crystal,
Or crowds of boiling golden waves,
Or blazing ether,
Or all the dazzling worlds united--
Compared to thee are like night compared to day.
Like a drop of water cast into the ocean
Is this whole firmament compared to thee.
But what is the universe which I behold,
And who am I, in thy presence?
Were I to add to the millions of worlds
Existing in the ocean of air,
A hundred fold as many other worlds--and then
Dare to compare them to thee,
They would scarcely appear an atom,
And I compared to thee--nothing!
Nothing! yet thou shinest in me
Through thy great goodness:
In me thou imagest thyself,
As the sun is reflected in a small drop of water.
Nothing! yet I am sensible of my existence,
By an indescribable longing I ascend
Steadfastly to a higher region:
My soul hopes to be even as thou,
It inquires, meditates, reasons;
I am, and doubtless thou must be.
THOU ART! the order of nature proclaims it;
My heart declares it to be so,
My mind assures me of it.
Thou art! and I am not, therefore, nothing!
I am a particle of the whole universe,
Placed, as I think, in that important
Middle point of being,
Where thou finishedst mortal creatures,
Where thou began'st heavenly spirits,
And the chain of all beings unitedst by me.
I am the bond of worlds existing everywhere;
I am the extreme grade of matter;
I am the centre of living things,
The commencing trait of the Divinity;
My body will resolve itself into ashes,
My mind commands the thunder.
I am a king, a slave, a worm, a god!
But, being thus wonderful,
From whence have I proceeded? This is unknown.
But I could not have existed of myself!
I am thy work, Creator!
I am the creature of thy supreme wisdom,
Fountain of life, Giver of blessings,
Soul and monarch of my soul!
It was necessary to thy justice
That my immortal being
Should traverse the abyss of death,
That my spirit should be veiled in perishable matter,
And that through death I should return,
Father! to thy immortality!
Inexplicable, incomprehensible Being!
I know that the imaginings
Of my soul are unable
Even to sketch thy shadow!
But, if it be our duty to praise thee,
Then it is impossible for weak mortals
Otherwise to render thee homage
Than, simply, to lift their hearts to thee,
To give way to boundless joy,
And shed tears of gratitude!
