AIL, lovely land of Saint
Vladimir!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 - Rab to Rus
Homiakov's lyricism moves in the field of religious thought. Tutchev
has a refined sense of nature; and his lyricism— differently from others
who treat the same subject - is not so much a reflection of nature
in the poet's personality as a participation with the phenomena, an
infusion of the poet into nature. These are the poets in whose works
the intellectual, political, and social currents of their time find active
responsiveness; others give but a few occasional echoes to the prob-
lems of their time, and are all more or less contemplative.
Maykov (born in 1821), the Alma-Tadema of Russian poetry, resus-
citates pictures of Greek and Roman antiquity; a lofty spirit ema-
nates from his philosophical juxtapositions. His lyricism is cold: his
lyric poems do not seem an immediate expression of feeling; the
process of incarnation seems to remove the work from the artist;
perhaps an exaggerated propensity towards antiquity has dried up
the source of genuine feeling, which cannot gush but out of the soil
of reality. Polonsky (born in 1820) is the poet of "psychological
landscape": the outside world is either reflected by the poet's per-
sonality, or participates with his feelings in a peaceful harmony of
mood; nature seems to have no proper life nor any sense by itself,—
it exists simply as man's perception. Quite different is the landscape
of Count Golenischev-Koutousov (born in 1848): he is an observer, a
spectator, not a participant of nature, and the latter has a complex
and multiple life of its own, independently from man; she pursues
her own way, with her own direction, and leaves man the choice of
joining her after his death in a nirvanic fusion with impersonal cos-
The most lyric of lyric poets is Fet (1820-1893): pure feeling,
impalpable, immaterial, like effect without cause; imagine a picture
without canvas, a sound without the chord which produces it, the
perfume of a flower without the flower itself,-so free of matter is
his poetry. He is the poet of indefinite emotions, unseizable shadow-
ings; where others enter into silence, there he begins to talk; with a
wonderful subtlety, and at the same time a great audacity of expres-
sion, he becomes the singer of lyrical twilight, of fugitive impressions,
fading memories, vanishing sounds. For the usual chords of a poet's
mos.
## p. 12590 (#650) ##########################################
12590
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
lyre he substituted the palpitating rays of the moonlight and the
rainbow.
Such is in brief lines the evolution of Russian lyricism to the pres-
ent moment, and such is in concise formulas the character of its
chief representatives.
Mathand
THE BLACK SHAWL
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN: 1799-1837)
IKE a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl:
L
Remorse, fear, and anguish,- this heart knows them all.
When believing and fond, in the springtime of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.
That fair one caressed me. my life! oh, 'twas bright;
But it set, that fair day, in a hurricane night.
-
One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knocked at my gate a vile Jew.
"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And she hath betrayed thee-thy young Grecian maid. "
I cursed him and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And called me a slave that was trusty and bold.
"Ho! my charger - my charger! " - We mount, we depart,
And soft pity whispered in vain at my heart.
On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood:
I was faint, and the sun seemed as darkened with blood.
By the maiden's low window I listen, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.
The light darkened round me; then flashed my good blade-
The minion ne'er finished the kiss that betrayed.
On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.
## p. 12591 (#651) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12591
I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream.
Thus perished the maiden - thus perished my dream.
This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore -
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.
The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurled the corpses of both in the Danube's dark wave.
Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light,
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.
Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl:
Remorse, fear, and anguish,- this heart knows them all.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
THE ROSE
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
HERE is our rose, friends?
Tell if ye may!
Faded the rose, friends,
The Dawn-child of Day.
YES!
WHE
Ah, do not say,
Such is life's fleetness!
No, rather say,
I mourn thee, rose,- farewell!
Now to the lily-bell
Flit we away.
ΤΟ
-
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
ES! I remember well our meeting
When first thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
By weary agonies surrounded
'Mid toil, 'mid mean and noisy care,
Long in mine ear thy soft voice sounded,
Long dreamed I of thy features fair.
## p. 12592 (#652) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12592
Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger,
Scattering mine early dreams to air,
And thy soft voice I heard no longer -
No longer saw thy features fair.
In exile's silent desolation
Slowly dragged on the days for me,-
Orphaned of life, of inspiration,
Of tears, of love, of deity.
I woke once more my heart was beating-
Once more thou dawnèdst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
My heart has found its consolation;
All has revived once more for me,
And vanished life, and inspiration,
And tears, and love, and deity.
---
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
MY STUDIES
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
N SOLITUDE my soul, my wayward inspiration
I
I've schooled to quiet toil, to fervent meditation.
I'm master of my days; order is reason's friend;
On graver thoughts I've learned my spirit's powers to bend:
I seek to compensate, in freedom's calm embraces,
For the warm years of youth, its joys and vanished graces,
And to keep equal step with an enlightened age.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
CAUCASUS
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
ENEATH me the peaks of the Caucasus lie;
B My gaze from the snow-bordered cliff I am bending:
From her sun-lighted eyrie the eagle ascending
Floats movelessly on in a line with mine eye.
I see the young torrent's first leaps towards the ocean,
And the cliff-cradled lawine essay its first motion.
## p. 12593 (#653) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12593
Beneath me the clouds in their silentness go,
The cataracts through them in thunder down-dashing,
Far beneath them bare peaks in the sunny ray flashing;
Weak moss and dry shrubs I can mark yet below,
Dark thickets still lower; green meadows are blooming
Where the throstle is singing and reindeer are roaming.
Here man, too, has nested his hut, and the flocks
On the long grassy slopes in their quiet are feeding,
And down to the valley the shepherd is speeding,
Where Arágva gleams out from her wood-crested rocks.
And there in his crags the poor robber is hiding,
And Térek in anger is wrestling and chiding.
Like a fierce young wild beast, how he bellows and raves,
Like that beast from his cage when his prey he espieth;
'Gainst the bank, like a wrestler, he struggleth and plieth,
And licks at the rocks with his ravening waves.
In vain, thou wild river! dumb cliffs are around thee,
And sternly and grimly their bondage hath bound thee!
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
THE BARD
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
SAYT
AY, have you heard by night in woodland depths
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow,
And when the fields at morning-hour were silent,
The plaintive simple accents of his pipe,-
Say, have you heard?
Say, have you met in empty forest shades
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow?
Have you remarked his recent tears, his smiling,
His gentle eyes so full of pathos mild,—
Say, have you seen?
XXI-788
Say, have you sighed to hear his gentle voice,—
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow?
When in the grove you saw the youthful poet
And met the glance of his pathetic eyes,—
Say, have you sighed?
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
---
## p. 12594 (#654) ##########################################
12594
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
A MONUMENT
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
'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 flees 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!
Translation of John Pollen.
YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
'VE overlived aspirings,
I
My fancies I disdain;
The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.
'Neath cruel storms of Fate
With 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.
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12595 (#655) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12595
THE FREE LIFE OF THE BIRD
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
AINFUL labors, grievous sorrows,
P Never on God's birdling rest,
And it fears no dark to-morrows,
Builds itself no lasting nest.
On the bough it sleeps and swings
Till the ruddy sun appears;
Then it shakes its wings and sings,
For the voice of God it hears.
After spring's delightful weather,
When the burning summer's fled,
And the autumn brings together
For men's sorrow, for men's dread,
Mists and storms in gloomy legions,-
Then the bird across the main
Flies to far-off southern regions,
Till the spring returns again.
AⓇ
THE ANGEL
-
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
T EDEN'S gates an angel holy
Was shining with bowed reverent head,
While o'er the abyss of hell soared slowly
A demon with black pinions dread.
The rebel spirit of doubt and lying
Beheld the sinless one; and then
The glow of tenderness, fast dying,
Awoke within his breast again!
"Farewell! my eyes have seen the vision:
Thou dost not shine in vain! " he cries.
"Not all on earth draws my derision,
Not all in heaven do I despise! "
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12596 (#656) ##########################################
12596
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
THE PRISONER
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV: 1814-41)
AWAY
WAY from the prison shade!
Give me the broad daylight;
Bring me a black-eyed maid,
A steed dark-maned as night.
First the maiden fair
Will I kiss on her ruddy lips,
Then the dark steed shall bear
Me, like the wind, to the steppes.
T
But the heavy door hath a bar,
The prison window is high;
The black-eyed maiden afar
In her own soft bed doth lie;
In meadow green the horse,
Unbridled, alone, at ease,
Gallops a playful course
And tosses his tail to the breeze.
Lonely am I, unjoying
Amid bare prison walls;
The light in the lamp is dying,
Dimmer the shadow falls;
And only, without my room,
I hear the measured ring
Of the sentry's steps in the gloom,
As he treads unanswering.
THE CLOUD
Translation of A. E. Staley.
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
THE giant cliff's wide bosom straying
Came a golden cloud, and soon was sleeping.
In the early dawn it woke, and leaping,
Hurried down the blue sky, gayly playing.
On the old cliff's wrinkled breast remaining,
Was a humid trace of dew-drops only.
Lost in thought the cliff stands, silent, lonely;
In the wilderness its tears are raining!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12597 (#657) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12597
THE CUP OF LIFE
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
-
E QUAFF life's cup with dim,
With covered eyes;
WE
-1
We blur its golden rim
With tears and sighs.
When from our brows at death
The bonds shall fall,
And with them vanisheth
False festival,—
Then shall we see that naught
The cup outpours;
A dream the draught so sought,
And that- not ours.
THE ANGEL
He sang of the bliss of sinless souls
Translation of A. E. Staley.
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
THROU
HROUGH the midnight heavens an angel flew,
And a soft low song sang he,
And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds
Heard that holy melody.
'Neath the tents of Eden-bowers;
Of God the Great One- he sang; and unfeigned
Was his praise of the Godhead's powers.
A little babe in his arms he bore,
For this world of woe and tears;
And the sound of his song in the soul of the child
Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.
And long languished she on this earth below,
With a wondrous longing filled,
But the world's harsh songs could not change for her
The notes which that angel trilled.
Translation of John Pollen.
4
## p. 12598 (#658) ##########################################
12598
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER
(M. Y. NEKRASSOV: 1821-77)
HEN up there comes a veteran,
With medals on his breast:
He scarcely lives, but yet he strives
To drink with all the rest.
TH
"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 weal 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! "
Translation of John Pollen.
THE PROPHET
(M. Y. NEKRASSOV)
H! TELL me not he prudence quite forgot;
A
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 honors 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.
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12599 (#659) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12599
HAPPINESS IN SLUMBER
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY: 1783-1852)
A
LONG the road the maiden
Walked with her faithful youth;
Their eyes with grief were laden,
Their faces pale with ruth.
ALO:
Α
On eyes and lips with yearning
Their tender kisses rain;
And life and beauty returning
Bloom in their hearts again.
Their joy was quickly reckoned:
Twice rang a solemn bell!
She in a convent wakened
He, in a prison cell!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE COMING OF SPRING
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY)
D
EEP silence in the sky;
The moon mysteriously
Through filmy haze is sinking;
The Star of Love is winking
Above the darkling hill,
And in the abyss so still
Things formless, fascinating,
Come flying, animating
The silence of the night,-
They bring the Spring's delight.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
NIGHT
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY)
LREADY now the weary day
Has through the purple waves descended;
The cooling shades have fast extended;
The azure arch of heaven grows gray!
## p. 12600 (#660) ##########################################
12600
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
And solemn Night with peaceful pinions
Comes winging through her vast dominions,
And Hesper with his glittering star
Is herald of her flight afar!
To us, O heavenly Night, draw near
With Slumber's welcome chalice hovering,
With magic curtain all things covering,
To weary hearts bring peace and cheer!
Soothe with thy presence so pacific,
With thy sweet music soporific,
As mothers soothe their babes to rest,
The soul by sorrow's pangs distrest.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE VESPER BELLS
(IVAN IVANOVICH KOZLOV: 1779-1840)
VESPER bells, O vesper bells!
My heart with sweet remembrance swells.
Ye bring me back to days of yore;
I see my father's home once more,
As when I left it for all time,
And heard your last, your parting chime.
The bright days of my traitorous spring,
How little profit did ye bring!
How many, once so young and gay,
No longer see the light of day.
Their sleep is deep where silence dwells,-
They do not hear the vesper bells!
Lay me too in the damp cold ground!
A song of melancholy sound
The breeze above my grave shall sigh;
Another singer shall pass by,-
Not I but he it is who tells
The meaning of the vesper bells!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12601 (#661) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12601
SPRING WATERS
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV: 1803-73)
STIL
TILL on the fields the snow lies white,
But spring-like founts already spout:
Adown the banks in sunshine bright
They dash and gleam and shout!
They shout aloud to every side:
"The Spring is near, the Spring is near!
Her couriers, we have hither hied;
She sent us forward we are here! »
The Spring is near, the Spring is near!
And in a ruddy brilliant throng
The warm sweet days of May appear,
To cheer her train with joy and song.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
SUNRISE
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
THE
HE East grew white-fast flew the shallop;
The joyous sails were full distended;
And like a heaven beneath us stretching,
The sea with misty light was blended.
The East grew red- the maiden worshipt,
Her veil from off her locks untying.
Heaven seemed to glow upon her features,
As on her lips the prayer was sighing.
The East grew fire. in adoration
She knelt, her beauteous head inclining.
And on her young cheeks, fresh and blooming,
The tear-drops stood like jewels shining.
-
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12602 (#662) ##########################################
12602
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
H
EVENING
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
wow sweetly o'er the silent valley
The distant solemn bell-tones fly!
Like rustling flights of cranes they dally,
Then in the sighing of leaves they die.
And like a spring tide overflowing
The day grows bright, then slowly fades;
And swifter and more silent going,
Adown the valley creep the shades.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
L
THE LEAVES
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
ET pine-trees and cedars
All winter make show,
And sleep 'mid the snow-storms,
Wrapt fast in the snow.
Their needles are pallid
Like grass that is transient;
Though they never turn yellow
They always look ancient.
But we, tribes of lightness,
Though brief our abiding,
Are blooming with brightness.
On our branches residing.
All the long lovely summer
In beauty we grew;
We played with the sunbeams,
We bathed in the dew.
But the birds have ceased singing,
The blossoms are dead,
The meadows are yellow,
The south wind has fled.
What use then in clinging
To the boughs all in vain ?
'Twere best we should follow
O'er valley and plain.
## p. 12603 (#663) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12603
O buffeting storm-winds!
Blow fiercer, blow harder,
And strip us from branches
We hate now with ardor.
Despoil us completely,—
We wish not to stay.
O whirl us and hurl us
Forever away!
H
RUSSIAN SONG
ALEKSEI STEPANOVICH HOMIAKOFF (1804-1860)
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
AIL, lovely land of Saint Vladimir!
Thy strength is vast, thy cities mighty;
Thou hast a host of faithful people!
On azure mountains firm thou leanest;
In azure seas thy feet thou bathest.
Thou dost not fear the cruel foe,
But thou dost fear the wrath of God!
Hail, lovely land of Saint Vladimir!
My fathers' fathers gave thee service.
They won thee peace by fruitful reason,
Thy holy cities they embellisht,
Thy cruel foes they helpt to vanquish.
Recall the good deeds of my fathers.
They served thee with a faithful service,
And I with faithful heart have served thee.
On the steppes from my loins have peasants. descended,
Have peasants descended, well-to-do little peasants;
Their place do they know, they know what is useful,
Their brethren they love, and God do they worship.
From me, in the courts, has justice been done
Has justice been done, unbought and impartial.
From me has gone forth to the whole world a rumor
That bluer skies are not to be seen,
That bluer seas are not to be plowed,
That beautiful is the land of Vladimir.
Admire her- thou wilt never sufficiently gaze;
Draw wisdom from her, thou ne'er wilt exhaust her.
## p. 12604 (#664) ##########################################
12604
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
Across the heavens the bright sun goes;
All the earth it warms, it lightens.
By night the crowded stars are shining,
And there is no counting the sand or the grass-blades,
And over the earth proceed the words of God —
It warms with life, with joy it shineth;
Bright gleam the churches' golden cupolas,
And the servants of the Lord and the pilgrims
Are countless like the grass-blades on the steppes,
Are countless like the sands upon the sea-shore.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE EASTER KISS
(APOLLON NIKOLAYVICH MAYKOV: 1821-? )
S
OON 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 repressed.
D
-
Translation of John Pollen.
THE ALPINE GLACIER
(APOLLON NIKOLAYVICH MAYKOV)
ANK 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 liquid turquoise
Flashing in the morning light?
## p. 12605 (#665) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12605
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! "
Translation of John Pollen.
THE KISS REFUSED
(APOLLON NIKOLAYVICH MAYKOV)
I
WOULD kiss you, lover true!
But I fear the moon would spy;
Little bright stars watch us too.
Little stars 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 neighborhood 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 bloom on you and me!
Translation of John Pollen.
BELIEVE IT NOT
(COUNT ALEKSEI KONSTANTINOVICH TOLSTOY: 1817-75)
ELIEVE it not, when in excess of sorrow
B
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 beloved shore!
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12606 (#666) ##########################################
12606
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
B
(COUNT ALEKSEI KONSTANTINOVICH TOLSTOY)
righter look the early flowers,
Louder sounds the skylark's strain;
Blue the air and green the bowers,
And the heart feels young again.
RENEWAL
Shaking off all bonds and fetters,
Flinging every chain aside,
Life in sunshine flows and glitters
Like the freely flowing tide.
Do you hear fresh voices singing,
And all pulses beating high,
As if chords unseen were ringing,
Tightly drawn from earth to sky?
ON SKOBELEV
(YAKOV PETROVICH POLONSKY: 1820-? )
HⓇ
E STOOD alone!
A
Translation of S. N. Wolkonsky.
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.
Translation of John Pollen.
TRYST
(A. FET [AFANASI AFANASYEVICH SHEASHIN]: 1820-93)
WHISPER, a gentle sigh,
Trills of the nightingale;
The silver flash of the brook
Asleep in the sleepy vale.
## p. 12607 (#667) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12607
The shadow 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! "
A RUSSIAN SCENE
(A. FET [AFANASI AFANASYEVICH SHEASHIN])
WON
Translation of John Pollen.
ONDROUS the picture,—
How homelike to me!
Distant plain whitening,
Full moon on the lea;
Light-in the heavens high,
And snow flashing bright;
Sledge in the distance
In its lonely flight.
FOLK-SONGS
Translation of John Pollen.
(ALEKSEI NIKOLAEVICH APUKHTIN: 1841-? )
AY in the court! Begins now the planting;
M¹Y Sings in his furrow the sower.
Songs of my fatherland, mournful, enchanting,
Sadly I hear you once more.
Yet in your cadences sad and pathetic,
Born of an infinite pain,
There is a something unknown and prophetic
Echoing through their refrain!
Conquering sorrow, their melodies swelling.
Thrill with the vigor of youth;
Vanish the torments of years beyond telling
Under the sway of their truth.
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12608
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
Mayst thou, my Russia, for glory created,
Mayst thou, my fatherland dear-
No! Freedom's songs thy children ill-fated
Ne'er o'er these prairies shall hear!
-
Translation of Pauline W. Brigham.
SORROW
(AUTHOR UNKNOWN)
HITHER shall I, the fair maiden, flee from
Sorrow?
WH
If I fly from Sorrow into the dark forest,
After me runs Sorrow with an axe:
"I will fell, I will fell the green oaks;
I will seek, I will find the fair maiden. »
If I fly from Sorrow into the open field,
After me runs Sorrow with a scythe:
"I will mow, I will mow the open field;
I will seek, I will find the fair maiden. "
Whither then shall I flee from Sorrow?
If I rush from Sorrow into the blue sea,
After me come
mes Sorrow as a huge fish:
"I will drink, I will swallow the blue sea;
I will seek, I will find the fair maiden. "
If I seek refuge from Sorrow in marriage,
Sorrow follows me as my dowry;
If I take to my bed to escape from Sorrow,
Sorrow sits beside my pillow.
And when I shall have fled from Sorrow into the damp earth,
Sorrow will come after me with a spade;
Then will Sorrow stand over me, and cry triumphantly,
"I have driven, I have driven the maiden into the damp earth. "
Translation of W. R. S. Ralston.
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