Poems. With Introduction and Notes

"My heart leaps up when I beholdA Rainbow in the sky."

It is not often that Byron strikes a chord as deep as that of the lines "In an Album:"—

"As o'er the cold, sepulchral stone,Some name arrests the passer-by."

It is here, however, that Pushkin is unsurpassed. One must go to Heine, one must go to Uhland, to Goethe, to find the like of him. And what makes him master here is the fact that his sentiment comes out pure, that it comes forth fused. And it comes thus because it comes from the depths; and as such it must find response even in an Anglo-Saxon heart, provided it has not yet been eaten into by Malthusian law and scientific charity. Pushkin's sentiment extorts respect even where it finds no longer any response; and as the sight of nobility stirs a healthy soul to noble deeds, as the sight of beauty refines the eye, so the presence of true sentiment can only awaken whatever sentiment already sleeps within us. It is for supplying this glaring defect in the English poets that a reading of Pushkin becomes invaluable. I almost fear to quote or compare. Sentiment cannot be argued about; like all else of the highest, deepest, like God, like love, it must be felt. Where it is understood, nothing need be said; where it is not understood, nothing can be said....

31. And yet a single example I venture to give. Pushkin's "Inspiring Love" and Wordsworth's "Phantom of Delight" treat of the same theme. Pushkin sees his beloved again, and after years—

"Enraptured beats again my heart,And risen are for it againBoth reverence and InspirationAnd life, and tears, and love."

Wordsworth also gets now a nearer view of his "Phantom of Delight;" and the sight rouses him to this pitch of enthusiastic sentiment:

"And now I see with eye serene,The very pulse of the machine."

In the presence of such bungling, I am almost ashamed to call attention, not to the machine that has a pulse, but to that noble woman who, purified, clarified in the imagination by the heat of a melted heart, can only become to the poet, a—machine. And this is the poet (whose very essence should be sensitiveness, delicacy, sentiment) who is ranked by Matthew Arnold as the greatest poet since Shakespeare....

32. I have given only one example, though there is hardly a volume of English poetry, with the possible exception of those of Burns, which does not furnish dozens of examples. If I give only one, it is because I have in mind Æsop's lioness, who gave such smart reply when chided for giving birth to only one young....

33. There is, indeed, one poet in the English language whose pages throb with sentiment, and who is moreover singularly free from that literary vice which I have called insincerity of imagination; in purity of pictures, in simplicity of sentiment, Goldsmith is unsurpassed in any tongue, but Goldsmith was not an Anglo-Saxon. And even Macaulay's great praise of "The Traveller" has not been sufficient to give it a place of authority among readers. The persons that read "The Traveller" once a year, as such a possession for all times should be read by rational readers, are very few.

34. From what I have designated as the first characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race—its rhetorical quality—springs the second, which I have designated as the superficiality of sentiment; since the rhetorician needs no depth, and when he does need it, he needs it only for the moment. And from this same rhetorical quality springs the third characteristic of English writers which appears in literature as a vice. I mean their comparative lack of the sense of form, of measuredness, literary temperance,—the want, in short, of the artistic sense. For architectural proportion, with beginning, middle, and end in proper relation, English poets have but little respect, and it is here that Pushkin is again master. It is the essence of poetry, that which makes it not-prose, that it is intense; but intensity to produce its effect must be short-lived. Prolonged, like a stimulant, it ceases to act. Hence, one of the first laws of poetry is that the presentation of its scenes, emotions, episodes, be brief. Against this law the sins in English literature among its masters are innumerable. Take, for instance, the manner in which Pushkin, on the one hand, and English poets, on the other, treat an object which has ever affected men with poetic emotion.

35. Many are the English poets who have tried their voices in singing of birds; Wordsworth's lines to the Skylark, the Green Linnet, the Cuckoo, Shelley's piece "To a Skylark," Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale," Bryant's "Lines to a Waterfowl," attest sufficiently the inspiration which tender birdie hath for the soul of man. Now read these in the light of Pushkin's twenty lines called "The Birdlet." Bryant alone, it seems to me, holds his own by the side of Pushkin. Shelley and Keats are lengthy to weariness; and Wordsworth is almost painfully tame. What thoughtlet or emotionlet these are stirred with at the sight of birdie is like a babe in the swaddling-clothes of fond, but inexperienced parents, suffocated in its wrappage.

36. This measuredness Pushkin displays best in his narrative poems. His story moves. His "Delibash" is the finest example of rapidity of execution combined with fidelity of skill. And the vividness of his stories in "The Drowned," "The Roussalka," and "The Cossak," is due not so much to the dramatic talent Pushkin doubtless possessed as to the sense of proportion which saved him from loading his narrative with needless detail. Gray's "Elegy," for instance, matchless in its beauty, is marred by the needless appendage of the youth himself. This part of the poem seems patched on Wordsworth's "Lucy Gray" seems to justify Goldsmith's bold metaphor,—for it does drag a lengthening chain at each remove. Longfellow's "Prelude" has like "Sartor Resartus" a most unwieldy apparatus for getting ready. The poet there is ever ready to say something, but hardly says it even at the end. And even Tennyson, who at one time did know what it was to keep fine poise in such matters, is frequently guilty of this merely getting ready to say his say.

37. These, then, are the three great virtues of Pushkin's poems: They have sincere imagination, which means pure taste; they have true sentiment, which means pure depth; they have true measure, which means pure art. Pushkin has many more virtues which are common to all great poets; but of these three I thought necessary to speak in detail.

Poems: Autobiographical

MON PORTRAITX. 35.3Vous me demandez mon portrait,Mais peint d'après nature:Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait,Quoique en miniature.Je sais un jeune polissonEncore dans les classes:Point sot, je le dis sans façonEt sans fades grimaces.One, il ne fut de babillard,Ni docteur de SorbonnePlus ennuyeux et plus braillardQue moi-même en personne.Ma taille à celle des plus longsElle n'est point égalée;J'ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds,Et la tête bouclée.J'aime et le monde, et son fracas,Je hais la solitude;J'abhorre et noises et débats,Et tant soit peu l'étude.Spectacles, bals me plaisent fort,Et d'après ma penséeJe dirais ce que j'aime encore,Si je n'étais au lycée.Après cela, mon cher ami,L'on peut me reconnaître:Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit,Je veux toujours paraître.Vrai demon pour l'espièglerie,Vrai singe par sa mine,Beaucoup et trop d'étourderie,—Ma foi—voilà Poushkine.MY PEDIGREEIV. 66With scorning laughter at a fellow writer,In a chorus the Russian scribesWith name of aristocrat me chide:Just look, if please you … nonsense what!Court Coachman not I, nor assessor,Nor am I nobleman by cross;No academician, nor professor,I'm simply of Russia a citizen.Well I know the times' corruption,And, surely, not gainsay it shall I:Our nobility but recent is:The more recent it, the more noble 't is.But of humbled races a chip,And, God be thanked, not aloneOf ancient Lords am scion I;Citizen I am, a citizen!Not in cakes my grandsire traded,Not a prince was newly-baked he;Nor at church sang he in choir,Nor polished he the boots of Tsar;Was not escaped a soldier heFrom the German powdered ranks;How then aristocrat am I to be?God be thanked, I am but a citizen.My grandsire Radsha in warlike serviceTo Alexander Nefsky was attached.The Crowned Wrathful, Fourth Ivan,His descendants in his ire had spared.About the Tsars the Pushkins moved;And more than one acquired renown,When against the Poles battling wasOf Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain.When treason conquered was and falsehood,And the rage of storm of war,When the Romanoffs upon the throneThe nation called by its Chart—We upon it laid our hands;The martyr's son then favored us;Time was, our race was prized,But I … am but a citizen obscure.Our stubborn spirit us tricks has played;Most irrepressible of his race,With Peter my sire could not get on;And for this was hung by him.Let his example a lesson be:Not contradiction loves a ruler,Not all can be Prince Dolgorukys,Happy only is the simple citizen.My grandfather, when the rebels roseIn the palace of Peterhof,Like Munich, faithful he remainedTo the fallen Peter Third;To honor came then the Orloffs,But my sire into fortress, prison—Quiet now was our stern race,And I was born merely—citizen.Beneath my crested sealThe roll of family charts I've kept;Not running after magnates new,My pride of blood I have subdued;I'm but an unknown singerSimply Pushkin, not Moussin,My strength is mine, not from court:I am a writer, a citizen.MY MONUMENTIV. 23A monument not hand-made I have for me erected;The path to it well-trodden will not overgrow;Risen higher has it with unbending headThan the monument of Alexander.No! not all of me shall die! my soul in hallowed lyreShall my dust survive, and escape destruction—And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sublunarOne bard at least living shall remain.My name will travel over the whole of Russia great,And there pronounce my name shall every living tongue:The Slav's proud scion, and the Finn, and the savage yetTungus, and the Calmuck, lover of the steppe.And long to the nation I shall be dear:For rousing with my lyre its noble feelings.For extolling freedom in a cruel age,For calling mercy upon the fallen.The bidding of God, O Muse, obey.Fear not insult, ask not crown:Praise and blame take with indifferenceAnd dispute not with the fool! August, 1836.MY MUSEIV. 1In the days of my youth she was fond of me,And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me.To me with smile she listened; and already gentlyAlong the openings echoing of the woodsWas playing I with fingers tender:Both hymns solemn, god-inspiredAnd peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd.From morn till night in oak's dumb shadowTo the strange maid's teaching intent I listened;And with sparing reward me gladdeningTossing back her curls from her forehead dear,From my hands the flute herself she took.Now filled the wood was with breath divineAnd the heart with holy enchantment filled.1823.MY DEMONIV. 107In those days when new to me wereOf existence all impressions:—The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper,The song of nightingale at night;When the sentiments elevatedOf Freedom, glory and of love,And of art the inspirationStirred deeply so my blood:—My hopeful hours and joyfulWith melancholy sudden dark'ningA certain evil spirit thenBegan in secret me to visit.Grievous were our meetings,His smile, and his wonderful glance,His speeches, these so stingingCold poison poured into my soul.Providence with slanderInexhaustible he tempted;Of Beauty as a dream he spakeAnd inspiration he despised;Nor love, nor freedom trusted he,On life with scorn he looked—And nought in all natureTo bless he ever wished.1823.REGRETIV. 76Not ye regret I, of spring my years,In dreams gone by of hopeless love;Not ye regret I, O mysteries of nights.By songstress passionate celebrated;Not ye, regret I, O my faithless friendsNor crowns of feasts, nor cups of circle,Nor ye regret I, O traitresses young—To pleasures melancholy stranger am I.But where are ye, O moments tenderOf young my hopes, of heartfelt peace?The former heat and grace of inspiration?Come again, O ye, of spring my years!REMINISCENCEIV. 96When noisy day to mortals quiet grows,And upon the city's silent wallsNight's shadow half-transparent lies,And Sleep, of daily toils reward,—Then for me are dragging in the silenceOf wearying wakefulness the hours.In the sloth of night more scorching burnMy heart's serpents' gnawing fangs;Boil my thoughts; my soul with grief oppressedFull of reveries sad is thronged.Before me memory in silenceIts lengthy roll unfolds.And with disgust my life I readingTremble I and curse it.Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed,But wash away the lines of grief I cannot.In laziness, in senseless feastsIn the craziness of ruinous license,In thraldom, poverty, and homeless desertsMy wasted years there I behold.Of friends again I hear the treacherous greetingGames amid of love and wine.To the heart again insults bringsIrrepressible the cold world.No joy for me,—and calmly before meOf visions young two now rise:Two tender shades, two angels meGiven by fate in the days of yore.But both have wings and flaming swords,And they watch—… and both are vengeant,And both to me speak with death tongueOf Eternity's mysteries, and of the grave.1828.ELEGYIV. 85My wishes I have survived,My ambition I have outgrown!Left only is my smart,The fruit of emptiness of heart.Under the storm of cruel FateFaded has my blooming crown!Sad I live and lonely,And wait: Is nigh my end?Thus touched by the belated frost,When storm's wintry whistle is heard,On the branch bare and loneTrembles the belated leaf.1821.RESURRECTIONIV. 116With sleepy brush the barbarian artistThe master's painting blackens;And thoughtlessly his wicked drawingOver it he is daubing.But in years the foreign colorsPeal off, an aged layer:The work of genius is 'gain before us,With former beauty out it comes.Thus my failings vanish tooFrom my wearied soul,And again within it visions rise,Of my early purer days.1819THE PROPHETIV. 19Tormented by the thirst for the spiritI was dragging myself in a sombre desert,And a six-winged seraph appearedUnto me on the parting of the roads.With fingers as light as a dreamMine eyes he touched:And mine eyes opened wiseLike the eyes of a frightened eagle;He touched mine ears,And they filled with din and ringing.And I heard the trembling of the heavensAnd the flight of the angel's wings,And the creeping of the polyps in the sea,And the growth of the vine in the valley.And he took hold of my lips,And out he tore my sinful tongueWith its empty and false speech.And the fang of the wise serpentBetween my terrified lips he placedWith bloody hand.And ope he cut with sword my breast,And out he took my trembling heart,And a coal with flaming blazeInto the opened breast he shoved.Like a corpse I lay in the desert.And the voice of God unto me called:Arise, O prophet, and listen, and guide.Be thou filled with my will,And going over land and seaFire with the word the hearts of men!1826.

Poems: Narrative

THE OUTCASTIII. 5On a rainy autumn eveningInto desert places went a maid;And the secret fruit of unhappy loveIn her trembling hands she held.All was still: the hills and the woodsAsleep in the darkness of the night.And her searching glancesIn terror about she cast.And on this babe, the innocent,Her glance she paused with a sigh:Asleep thou art, my child, my grief.Thou knowest not my sadness.Thine eyes will ope, and tho' with longing,To my breast shalt no more cling.No kiss for thee to-morrowFrom thine unhappy mother.Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,My everlasting shame, my guilt!Me forget thou shalt for aye,But thee forget shall not I.Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers,Who 'll say: Thou art none of ours!Thou wilt ask, Where are my parents?But for thee no kin is found!Hapless one! With heart filled with sorrow,Lonely amid thy mates,Thy spirit sullen to the end,Thou shalt behold fondling mothers.A lonely wanderer everywhereCursing thy fate at all times,Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear....Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!Asleep! let me then, O hapless oneTo my bosom press thee once for all.A law unjust and terribleThee and me to sorrow dooms.While the years have not yet chasedThe guiltless joy of thy days,Sleep, my darling, let no griefs bitterMar thy childhood's quiet life!But lo! behind the woods, near byThe moon brings a hut to light.Forlorn, pale, and tremblingTo the doors nigh she came.She stooped and gently laid she downThe babe on the threshold strange.In terror away her eyes she turnedAnd in the dark night disappeared.1814.THE BLACK SHAWLIII. 83I gaze demented on the black shawlAnd my cold soul is torn by grief.When young I was and full of trustI passionately loved a young Greek girl.The charming maid, she fondled me,But soon I lived the black day to see.Once as were gathered my jolly guestsA detested Jew knocked at my door.Thou art feasting (he whispered) with friendsBut betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid.Moneys I gave him and curses,And called my servant the faithful.We went: I flew on the wings of my steed;And tender mercy was silent in me.Her threshold no sooner I espiedDark grew my eyes, and my strength departed.The distant chamber I enter alone,An Armenian embraces my faithless maid.Darkness around me; flashed the dagger;To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time.And long I trampled the headless corpse,—And silent and pale at the maid I stared.I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,But perished the girl, and with her my love.The shawl I took from the head now deadAnd wiped in silence the bleeding steel.When came the darkness of eve, my serfThrew their bodies into the Danube's billows—Since then I kiss no charming eyes,Since then I know no cheerful days.I gaze demented on the black shawl,And my cold soul is torn by grief.1820.THE ROUSSALKAIII. 71By a lake once in forest darknessA monk his soul was saving,Ever in stern occupationOf prayer, fast, and labor.Already with slackened shovelThe aged man his grave was digging,And only for death in peace and quietTo his saintly patrons prayed he.Once in summer at the thresholdOf his drooping little hutTo God was praying the hermit.Darker grew the forest.Over the lake was rising fog.And in the clouds the reddish moonWas gently rolling along the sky.Upon the waters the hermit gazed.He looks, and fears, and knows not why,Himself he cannot understand....Now he sees: the waves are seethingAnd suddenly again are quiet....Suddenly … as light as shade of night,As white as early snow of hills,Out cometh a woman nakedAnd on the shore herself she seats.Upon the aged monk she gazesAnd she combs her moistened tresses—The holy monk with terror trembles,Upon her charms still he gazes;With her hand to him she beckonsAnd her head she's quickly nodding....And suddenly like a falling starThe dreamy wave she vanished under.The sober monk, all night he slept not,And all day he prayed notThe shadow unwittingly before himOf the wondrous maid he ever sees.Again the forest is clad in darkness,Along the clouds the moon is sailing.Again the maid above the water,Pale and splendent there she sits.Gaze her eyes, nods her head,Throws kisses, and she's sporting,The wave she sprinkles, and she frolics;Child-like weeping now and laughing;Sobbing tender—the monk she calls:Monk, O monk, to me, to me!Into the waves transparent she dashes;And again is all in silence deep.But on the third day the roused hermitThe enchanted shores nigh sitting was,And the beautiful maid he awaited.Upon the trees were falling shades....Night at last by dawn was chased—And nowhere monk could be found,His beard alone, the gray oneIn the water the boys could see.1819.THE COSSAKIII. 14Once at midnight hour,Darkness thro' and fog,Quiet by the riverRode a Cossak brave.Black his cap upon his ear,Dust-covered is his coat,By his knee the pistols hangAnd nigh the ground his sword.The faithful steed, rein not feelingIs walking slowly on,(Long its mane is, and is waving)Ever further it keeps on.Now before him two—three huts:Broken is the fence;To the village here the road,To the forest there."Not in forest maid is found,"Dennis thinks, the brave."To their chambers went the maids;Are gone for the night."The son of Don he pulls the reinAnd the spur he strikes:Like an arrow rushed the steed—To the huts he turned.In the clouds the distant skyWas silvering the moon;A Beauty-Maid in melancholyBy the window sits.Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid,Beats his heart within:Gently steed to left, to left—Under the window now is he."Darker growing is the nightAnd hidden is the moon;Quick, my darling, do come out,Water give my steed.""No, not unto a man so young;Right fearful't is to go;Fearful't is my house to leave,And water give thy steed.""Have no fear, O Beauty-Maid,And friendship close with me"—"Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids,""Fear me not, O joy of mine!"Trust me, dear, thy fear is vain,Away with terror groundless!Time thou losest precious,Fear not, O my darling!Mount my steed; with thee I willTo distant regions gallop;Blest with me be thou shalt,Heaven with mate is everywhere."And the maid? Over she bends,Her fear is overcome,Bashfully to ride consents,And the Cossak happy is.Off they dart, away they fly;Are loving one another.Faithful he for two brief weeks,Forsook her on the third.1815.THE DROWNEDIV. 185Into the hut the children run,In haste they called their father:"Papa, papa, oh, our netsOut a corpse have dragged.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye little devils"Upon them father grumbled."I declare, those wicked brats!Corpse now too have they must!"Down will come the court, 'Give answer!'And for an age no rest from it.But what to do? Heigh, wife, there,My coat give me, must get there somehow....Now where's the corpse?"—"Here, papa, here!"And in truth along the river,Where is spread the moistened net,Upon the sand is seen the corpse.Disfigured terribly the corpse is,Is blue, and all is swollen.Is it a hapless sorrower,Who ruined has his sinful soul,Or by the waves a fisher taken,Or some fellow, drunkard,Or by robbers stripped, perchance,Trader some, unbusinesslike?To the peasant, what is this?About he looks and hastens....Seizes he the body drowned,By the feet to water drags it,And from the shore the windingOff he pushes it with oarDownward 'gain floats the corpse,And grave, and cross still is seeking.And long the dead among the waves,As if living, swinging, floated;With his eyes the peasant himHomeward going, followed."Ye little dogs, now follow me,Each of you a cake shall have;But look ye out, and hold your tongues!Else a thrashing shall ye have."At night the wind to blow beganFull of waves became the river;Out the light was already goingIn the peasant's smoky hut.The children sleep; the mother slumbers.On the oven husband lies.Howls the storm; a sudden knockingHe hears of some one at the window."Who's there?"—"Ope the door I say!""Time eno'; what is the matter?Wherefore comes tramp at night?By the devil art hither brought!Wherefore with you should I bother?Crowded my house and dark is."So saying, he with lazy handOpen throws the window.Rolls the moon from behind the clouds—And now? A naked man before him stands;From his beard a stream is flowingHis glance is fixed, and is open.All about him is frightful dumbnessAnd his hands are dropped down;And to the puffed-out, swollen bodyBlack crabs are fastened.The peasant quickly shuts the window;He recognized his naked guest,Is terror-struck. "May you burst!"Out he whispered and trembled.In great confusion now his thoughts are,And all night he shakes in fever;And till the morrow still the knocking'S heard on the window and at the gates.Report there was among the people:Saying, since then every yearWaiting is the hapless peasantFor his guest on the appointed day.In the morning the weather changesAnd at night the storm arrives,And the dead man is ever knockingBy the window, and at the gates.1828.

Poems of Nature

THE BIRDLETI. 171God's birdlet knowsNor care, nor toil;Nor weaves it painfullyAn everlasting nest.Thro' the long night on the twig it slumbers;When rises the red sunBirdie listens to the voice of GodAnd it starts, and it sings.When Spring, Nature's Beauty,And the burning summer have passed,And the fog, and the rain,By the late fall are brought,Men are wearied, men are grieved,But birdie flies into distant lands,Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea:Flies away until the spring.1824.THE CLOUDIV. 95O last cloud of the scattered storm,Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;Alone thou bringest the shadow sombre,Alone thou marrest the joyful day.Thou but recently had'st encircled the skyWhen sternly the lightning was winding about thee;Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder,With rain hast watered the parched earth.Enough! Hie thyself: thy time hath passed:Earth is refreshed; the storm hath fled;And the breeze, fondling the trees' leavesForth thee chases from the quieted heavens!1835.THE NORTH WINDIV. 94Why, O wrathful north wind, thouThe marshy shrub dost downward bend?Why thus in the distant sky-vaultWrathfully the cloud dost chase?The black clouds but recentlyHad spread the whole heavens o'er,The oak on hill top but recentlyIn beauty wondrous itself was priding.Thou hast risen, and up hast played,With terror resounded, and with splendor—And away are driven the stormy clouds;Down is hurled the mighty oak.Let now then the sun's clear faceWith joy henceforth ever shine,With the clouds now the zephyr play,And the bush in quiet sway.1824.WINTER MORNINGIV. 164Frost and sun—the day is wondrous!Thou still art slumbering, charming friend.'Tis time, O Beauty, to awaken:Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed,To meet the Northern Dawn of MorningThyself a north-star do thou appear!Last night, remember, the storm scolded,And darkness floated in the clouded sky;Like a yellow, clouded spotThro' the clouds the moon was gleaming,—And melancholy thou wert sitting—But now … thro' the window cast a look:Stretched beneath the heavens blueCarpet-like magnificent,In the sun the snow is sparkling;Dark alone is the wood transparent,And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir,And under the ice the rivulet sparkles.Entire is lighted with diamond splendorThy chamber … with merry crackleThe wood is crackling in the oven.To meditation invites the sofa.But know you? In the sleigh not order whyThe brownish mare to harness?Over the morning snow we glidingTrust we shall, my friend, ourselvesTo the speed of impatient steed;Visit we shall the fields forsaken,The woods, dense but recently,And the banks so dear to me.1829.WINTER EVENINGIV. 166The storm the sky with darkness covers,The snowy whirlings twisting;Like a beast wild now is howling,Like an infant now is crying;Over the aged roof now suddenIn the straw it rustling is;Like a traveller now belatedFor entrance at our window knocking.With melancholy and with darknessOur little, aged hut is filledWhy in silence then thou sittestBy the window, wife old mine?Or by the howling storms artWearied thou, O companion mine?Or perchance art slumbering,By the rustling spindle soothed?Let us drink, O kindly friendOf my poverty and youth,Away with grief,—where is the cup?Joy it shall bring to our heart.A song now sing me, how the birdBeyond the sea in quiet lived;A song now sing me, how the maidenIn the morning for water went.The storm the sky with darkness covers,The snowy whirlings twisting;Like a beast wild now is howling,Like an infant now is crying.Let us drink, O kindly friendOf my poverty and youth,Away with grief,—where is the cupJoy it shall bring to our heart!1826.THE WINTER-ROADIV. 161Breaking thro' the waving fogsForth the moon is coming,And on the gloomy acresShe gloomy light is shedding.Along the wintry, cheerless roadFlies the rapid troikaThe little bell monotonousWearily is tinkling.A certain homefulness is heardIn the driver's lengthy lays:Now light-hearted carelessness,Now low-spirited sadness.Neither light, nor a dark hut …Only snow and silence....Striped mileposts are aloneThe travellers who meet us.Sad I feel and weary.... On the morrow, Nina,To my beloved I returningForget myself shall by the fireAnd scarce eno' at her shall gaze.Loudly of my watch the springIts measured circle is completingAnd us the parter of the wearied,Midnight, not shall separate.Sad I'm, Nina; my journey's weary;Slumbering now, my driver is quietThe little bell is monotonousAnd darkened now is the moon's face.1826.