Poems. With Introduction and Notes

Poems of Love

THE STORM-[MAID]IV. 146Hast thou seen on the rock the maid,In robe of white above the waves,When seething in the storm darkPlayed the sea with its shores,—When the glare of lightning hourlyWith rosy glimmer her lighted up,And the wind beating and flappingStruggled with her flying robe?Beautiful's the sea in the storm dark,Glorious is the sky even without its blueBut trust me: on the rock the maidExcels both wave, and sky, and storm.1825.THE BARDIII. 43Have ye heard in the woods the nightly voiceOf the bard of love, of the bard of his grief?When the fields in the morning hour were still,The flute's sad sound and simpleHave ye heard?Have ye met in the desert darkness of the forestThe bard of love, the bard of his grief?Was it a track of tears, was it a smile,Or a quiet glance filled with melancholy,Have ye met?Have ye sighed, listening to the calm voiceOf the bard of love, of the bard of grief?When in the woods the youth ye sawAnd met the glance of his dulled eyes,Have ye sighed?1816.SPANISH LOVE-SONGIV. 136Evening ZephyrWaves the ether.Murmurs,RushesThe Guadalquivir.Now the golden moon has risen,Quiet,… Tshoo … guitar's now heard....Now the Spanish girl youngO'er the balcony has leaned.Evening ZephyrWaves the ether.Murmurs,RushesThe Guadalquivir.Drop thy mantle, angel gentle,And appear as fair as day!Thro' the iron balustradePut thy wondrous tender foot!Evening ZephyrWaves the ether.Murmurs,RushesThe Guadalquivir.1824.[LOVE.]IV. 152Bitterly groaning, jealous maid the youth was scolding;He, on her shoulder leaning, suddenly was in slumber lost.Silent forthwith is the maid; his light sleep now fondles sheNow she smiles upon him, and is shedding gentle tears.1835.[JEALOUSY.]IV. 85Damp day's light is quenched: damp night's darknessStretches over the sky its leaden garment.Like a ghost, from behind the pine woodFoggy moon has risen....All brings upon my soul darkness grievous.Far, far away rises the shining moon,There the earth is filled with evening warmthThere the sea moveth with luxuriant waveUnder the heavens blue....Now is the time. On the hillside now she walksTo the shore washed by noisy waves.There, under the billowed cliffsAlone she sits now melancholy....Alone … none before her weeping, grieves not,Her knees none kisses in ecstasy.Alone … to lips of none she is yieldingHer shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers..   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .    .   ..   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .    .   .None is worthy of her heavenly love.Is it not so? Thou art alone.  .  .  . Thou weepest.  .  .  .And I at peace?   .   .   .   .   .   .   ..   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .But if  .   .   .   .   .   .   .1823.IN AN ALBUMIV. 99The name of me, what is it to theeDie it shall like the grievous soundOf wave, playing on distant shore,As sound of night in forest dark.Upon the sheet of memoryIts traces dead leave it shallInscriptions-like of grave-yardIn some foreign tongue.What is in it? Long ago forgottenIn tumultuous waves and freshTo thy soul not give it shallPure memories and tender.But on sad days, in calmnessDo pronounce it sadly;Say then: I do remember thee—On earth one heart is where yet I live!1829.THE AWAKINGIII. 42Ye dreams, ye dreams,Where is your sweetness?Where thou, where thouO joy of night?Disappeared has it,The joyous dream;And solitaryIn darkness deepI awaken.Round my bedIs silent night.At once are cooled,At once are fled,All in a crowdThe dreams of Love—Still with longingThe soul is filledAnd grasps of sleepThe memory.O Love, O Love,O hear my prayer:Again send meThose visions thine,And on the morrowRaptured anewLet me dieWithout awaking!1816.ELEGYIII. 39Happy who to himself confessHis passion dares without terror;Happy who in fate uncertainBy modest hope is fondled;Happy who by foggy moonbeamsIs led to midnight joyfulAnd with faithful key who gentlyThe door unlocks of his beloved.But for me in sad my lifeNo joy there is of secret pleasure;Hope's early flower faded is,By struggle withered is life's flower.Youth away flies melancholy,And droop with me life's roses;But by Love tho' long forgot,Forget Love's tears I cannot.1816.[FIRST LOVE.]I. 112Not at once our youth is faded,Not at once our joys forsake us,And happiness we unexpectedYet embrace shall more than once;But ye, impressions never-dyingOf newly trepidating Love,And thou, first flame of Intoxication,—Not flying back are coming ye!ELEGYIII. 99Hushed I soon shall be. But if on sorrow's dayMy songs to me with pensive play replied;But if the youths to me, in silence listeningAt my love's long torture were marvelling;But if thou thyself, to tenderness yieldingRepeated in quiet my melancholy versesAnd didst love my heart's passionate language;But if I am loved:—grant then, O dearest friend,That my beautiful beloved's coveted nameBreathe life into my lyre's farewell.When for aye embraced I am by sleep of Death,Over my urn do with tenderness pronounce:"By me he loved was, to me he owedOf his love and song his last inspiration."1821.THE BURNT LETTERIV. 87Good-bye, love-letter, good-bye! 'T is her command....How long I waited, how long my handTo the fire my joys to yield was loath! …But eno', the hour has come: burn, letter of my love!I am ready: listens more my soul to nought.Now the greedy flame thy sheets shall lick …A minute! … they crackle, they blaze … a light smokeCurls and is lost with prayer mine.Now the finger's faithful imprint losingBurns the melted wax.... O Heavens!Done it is! curled in are the dark sheets;Upon their ashes light the lines adoredAre gleaming.... My breast is heavy. Ashes dear,In my sorrowful lot but poor consolation,Remain for aye with me on my weary breast....1825.[SING NOT, BEAUTY.]IV. 135Sing not, Beauty, in my presence,Of Transcaucasia sad the songs,Of distant shore, another life,The memory to me they bring.Alas, alas, remind they do,These cruel strains of thine,Of steppes, and night, and of the moonAnd of distant, poor maid's features.The vision loved, tender, fated,Forget can I, when thee I seeBut when thou singest, then before meUp again it rises.Sing not, Beauty, in my presenceOf Transcaucasia sad the songs,Of distant shore, another lifeThe memory to me they bring.1828.SIGNSIV. 125To thee I rode: living dreams thenBehind me winding in playful crowd;My sportive trot my shoulder overThe moon upon my right was chasing.From thee I rode: other dreams now....My loving soul now sad was,And the moon at left my sideCompanion mine now sad was.To dreaming thus in quiet everSingers we are given over;Marks thus of superstitionSoul's feeling with are in accord!1829.A PRESENTIMENTIV. 97The clouds again are o'er me,Have gathered in the stillness;Again me with misfortuneEnvious fate now threatens.Will I keep my defiance?Will I bring against herThe firmness and patienceOf my youthful pride?Wearied by a stormy lifeI await the storm fretlessPerhaps once more safe againA harbor shall I find....But I feel the parting nigh,Unavoidable, fearful hour,To press thy hand for the last timeI haste to thee, my angel.Angel gentle, angel calm,Gently tell me: fare thee well.Be thou grieved: thy tender gazeEither drop or to me raise.The memory of thee now shallTo my soul replaceThe strength, the pride and the hope,The daring of my former days!1828.[IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND.]III. 221In vain, dear friend, to conceal I triedThe turmoil cold of my grieving soul;Now me thou knowest; goes by the intoxication.And no longer thee I love....Vanished for aye the bewitching hours,The beautiful time has passed,Youthful desires extinguished areAnd lifeless hope is in my heart....[LOVE'S DEBT.]IV. 101For the shores of thy distant homeThou hast forsaken the foreign land;In a memorable, sad hourI before thee cried long.Tho' cold my hands were growingThee back to hold they tried;And begged of thee my parting groanThe gnawing weariness not to break.But from my bitter kisses thouThy lips away hast torn;From the land of exile drearyCalling me to another land.Thou saidst: on the day of meetingBeneath a sky forever blueOlives' shade beneath, love's kissesAgain, my friend, we shall unite.But where, alas! the vaults of skyShining are with glimmer blue,Where 'neath the rocks the waters slumber—With last sleep art sleeping thou.And beauty thine and sufferingsIn the urnal grave have disappeared—But the kiss of meeting is also gone....But still I wait: thou art my debtor! …INVOCATIONIII. 146Oh, if true it is that by nightWhen resting are the livingAnd from the sky the rays of moonAlong the stones of church-yard glide;O, if true it is that emptied thenAre the quiet graves,I call thy shade, I wait my LilaCome hither, come hither, my friend, to me!Appear, O shade of my belovedAs thou before our parting wert:Pale, cold, like a wintry dayDisfigured by thy struggle of death,Come like unto a distant star,Or like a fearful apparition,'T is all the same: Come hither, come hitherAnd I call thee, not in orderTo reproach him whose wickednessMy friend hath slain.Nor to fathom the grave's mysteries,Nor because at times I'm wornWith gnawing doubt … but I sadlyWish to say that still I love thee,That wholly thine I am: hither come, O hither!1828.ELEGYIV. 100The extinguished joy of crazy yearsOn me rests heavy, like dull debauch.But of by-gone days the grief, like wineIn my soul the older, the stronger 't grows.Dark my path. Toil and pain promised are meBy the Future's roughened sea.But not Death, O friends, I wish!But Life I wish: to think and suffer;Well I know, for me are joys in store'Mid struggles, toils, and sorrows:Yet 'gain at times shall harmony drink inAnd tears I'll shed over Fancy's fruit,—Yet mayhap at my saddened sunsetLove will beam with farewell and smile.1830.SORROWIII. 69Ask not why with sad reflection'Mid gayety I oft am darkened,Why ever cheerless eyes I raise,Why sweet life's dream not dear to me is;Ask not why with frigid soulI joyous love no longer crave,And longer none I call dear:Who once has loved, not again can love;Who bliss has known, ne'er again shall know;For one brief moment to us 't is given:Of youth, of joy, of tendernessIs left alone the sadness.1817.DESPAIRIII. 41Dear my friend, we are now parted,My soul's asleep; I grieve in silence.Gleams the day behind the mountain blue,Or rises the night with moon autumnal,—Still thee I seek, my far off friend,Thee alone remember I everywhere,Thee alone in restless sleep I see.Pauses my mind, unwittingly thee I call;Listens mine ear, then thy voice I hear.And thou my lyre, my despair dost share,Of sick my soul companion thou!Hollow is and sad the sound of thy string,Grief's sound alone hast not forgot....Faithful lyre, with me grieve thou!Let thine easy note and carelessSing of love mine and despair,And while listening to thy singingMay thoughtfully the maidens sigh!1816.A WISHIII. 38Slowly my days are draggingAnd in my faded heart each moment doublesAll the sorrows of hopeless loveAnd heavy craze upsets me.But I am silent. Heard not is my murmur.Tears I shed … they are my consolation;My soul in sorrow steepedFinds enjoyment bitter in them.O flee, life's dream, thee not regret I!In darkness vanish, empty vision!Dear to me is of love my pain,Let me die, but let me die still loving!1816.[RESIGNED LOVE.]IV. 99Thee I loved; not yet love perhaps isIn my heart entirely quenchedBut trouble let it thee no more;Thee to grieve with nought I wish.Silent, hopeless thee I loved,By fear tormented, now by jealousy;So sincere my love, so tender,May God the like thee grant from another.[LOVE AND FREEDOM.]III. 157Child of Nature and simple,Thus to sing was wont ISweet the dream of freedom—With tenderness my breast it filled.But thee I see, thee I hear—And now? Weak become I.With freedom lost foreverWith all my heart I bondage prize.[NOT AT ALL.]IV. 118I thought forgotten has the heartOf suffering the easy art;Not again can be, said INot again what once has been.Of Love the sorrows gone were,Now calm were my airy dreams....But behold! again they trembleBeauty's mighty power before!…[INSPIRING LOVE.]IV. 117The moment wondrous I rememberThou before me didst appearLike a flashing apparition,Like a spirit of beauty pure.'Mid sorrows of hopeless grief,'Mid tumults of noiseful bustle,Rang long to me thy tender voice,Came dreams to me of thy lovely features.Went by the years. The storm's rebellious rushThe former dreams had scatteredAnd I forgot thy tender voice,I forgot thy heavenly features.In the desert, in prison's darkness,Quietly my days were dragging;No reverence, nor inspiration,Nor tears, nor life, nor love.But at last awakes my soul:And again didst thou appear:Like a flashing apparition,Like a spirit of beauty pure.And enraptured beats my heart,And risen are for it againBoth reverence, and inspirationAnd life, and tears, and love.1825.[THE GRACES.]III. 160Till now no faith I had in Graces:Seemed strange to me their triple sight;Thee I see, and with faith am filledAdoring now in one the three!

Poems: miscellaneous

THE BIRDLETIV. 133In exile I sacredly observeThe custom of my fatherland:I freedom to a birdlet giveOn Spring's holiday serene.And now I too have consolation:Wherefore murmur against my GodWhen at least to one living beingI could of freedom make a gift?1823.THE NIGHTINGALEIV. 145In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the nightSings above the rose from the east the nightingale;But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it,But under its lover's hymn waveth it and slumbers.Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold?Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding?She neither listens, nor the bard she feels.Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?—Answer none she gives!1827.THE FLOWERETIV. 95A floweret, withered, odorlessIn a book forgot I find;And already strange reflectionCometh into my mind.Bloomed, where? when? In what spring?And how long ago? And plucked by whom?Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand?And wherefore left thus here?Was it in memory of a tender meeting?Was it in memory of a fated parting?Was it in memory of a lonely walk?In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods?Lives he still? Lives she still?And where their nook this very day?Or are they too witheredLike unto this unknown floweret?1828.THE HORSEIV. 271Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed,Why thy neck so low,Why thy mane unshakenWhy thy bit not gnawed?Do I then not fondle thee?Thy grain to eat art thou not free?Is not thy harness ornamented,Is not thy rein of silk,Is not thy shoe of silver,Thy stirrup not of gold?The steed in sorrow answer gives:Hence am I quietBecause the distant tramp I hear,The trumpet's blow and the arrow's whizzAnd hence I neigh, since in the fieldNo longer feed I shall,Nor in beauty live and fondling,Neither shine with harness bright.For soon the stern enemyMy harness whole shall takeAnd the shoes of silverTear he shall from feet mine light.Hence it is that grieves my spirit:That in place of my chaprakWith thy skin shall cover heMy perspiring sides.1833.TO A BABEIV. 144Child, I dare not over theePronounce a blessing;Thou art of consolation a quiet angelMay then happy be thy lot....THE POET(IV. 2)Ere the poet summoned isTo Apollo's holy sacrificeIn the world's empty caresEngrossed is half-hearted he.His holy lyre silent isAnd cold sleep his soul locks in;And of the world's puny children,Of all puniest perhaps is he.Yet no sooner the heavenly wordHis keen ear hath reached,Than up trembles the singer's soulLike unto an awakened eagle.The world's pastimes him now wearyAnd mortals' gossip now he shunsTo the feet of popular idolHis lofty head bends not he.Wild and stern, rushes he,Of tumult full and sound,To the shores of desert wave,Into the widely-whispering wood.1827.TO THE POETSONNET(IV. 9)Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize!Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise;The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter—Calm stand, and firm be, and—sober!Thou art king: live alone. On the free roadWalk, whither draws thee thy spirit free:Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening,Never reward for noble deeds demanding.In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art;Severest judge, thine own works canst measure.Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman?Content? Then let the mob scold,And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire.Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.THE THREE SPRINGSIV. 134In the world's desert, sombre and shorelessMysteriously three springs have broken thro':Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid;It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs.The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspirationIn the world's deserts its exiles waters;The last spring—the cold spring of forgetfulness,Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire.1827.THE TASKIV. 151The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task.Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly?My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand,My wage in hand, to other task a stranger?Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine,Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?1830.SLEEPLESSNESSIV. 101I cannot sleep, I have no light;Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow;The beat monotonous aloneNear me of the clock is heard.Of the Fates the womanish babble,Of sleeping night the trembling,Of life the mice-like running-about,—Why disturbing me art thou?What art thou, O tedious whisper?The reproaches, or the murmurOf the day by me misspent?What from me wilt thou have?Art thou calling or prophesying?Thee I wish to understand,Thy tongue obscure I study now.1830.[QUESTIONINGS.]IV. 98Useless gift, accidental gift,Life, why given art thou me?Or, why by fate mysteriousTo torture art thou doomed?Who with hostile power meOut has called from the nought?Who my soul with passion thrilled,Who my spirit with doubt has filled?…Goal before me there is none,My heart is hollow, vain my mindAnd with sadness wearies meNoisy life's monotony.1828.[CONSOLATION.]IV. 142Life,—does it disappoint thee?Grieve not, nor be angry thou!In days of sorrow gentle be:Come shall, believe, the joyful day.In the future lives the heart:Is the present sad indeed?'T is but a moment, all will pass;Once in the past, it shall be dear.1825.[FRIENDSHIP.]III. 201Thus it ever was and ever will be,Such of old is the world wide:The learned are many, the sages few,Acquaintance many, but not a friend![FAME.]III. 102Blessed who to himself has keptHis creation highest of the soul,And from his fellows as from the gravesExpected not appreciation!Blessed he who in silence sangAnd the crown of fame not wearing,By mob despised and forgotten,Forsaken nameless has the world!Deceiver greater than dreams of hope,What is fame? The adorer's whisper?Or the boor's persecution?Or the rapture of the fool?1824.THE ANGELIV. 108At the gates of Eden a tender angelWith drooping head was shining;A demon gloomy and rebelliousOver hell's abyss was flying.The Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of DoubtThe Spirit of Purity espied;And a tender warmth unwittinglyNow first to know it learned he.Adieu, he spake, thee I saw:Not in vain hast thou shone before me;Not all in the world have I hated,Not all in the world have I scorned.1827.[HOME-SICKNESS.]III. 131Mayhap not long am destined IIn exile peaceful to remain,Of dear days of yore to sigh,And rustic muse in quietWith spirit calm to follow.But even far, in foreign land,In thought forever roam I shallAround Trimountain mine:By meadows, river, by its hills,By garden, linden nigh the house.Thus when darkens day the clear,Alone from depths of grave,Spirit home-longingInto the native hall fliesTo espy the loved ones with tender glance.1825.[INSANITY.]III. 149God grant I grow not insane:No, better the stick and beggar's bag:No, better toil and hunger bear.Not that I upon my reasonSuch value place; not that IWould fain not lose it.If freedom to me they would leaveHow I would lasciviouslyFor the gloomy forest rush!In hot delirium I would singAnd unconscious would remainWith ravings wondrous and chaotic.And listen would I to the wavesAnd gaze I would full of blissInto the empty heavens.And free and strong then would I beLike a storm the fields updigging,Forest-trees uprooting.But here's the trouble: if crazy once,A fright thou art like pestilence,And locked up now shalt thou be.To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fastenAnd through the gate, a circus beast,Thee to nettle the people come.And at night not hear shall IClear the voice of nightingaleNor the forest's hollow sound,But cries alone of companions mineAnd the scolding guards of nightAnd a whizzing, of chains a ringing.[DEATH-THOUGHTS.]IV. 93Whether I roam along the noisy streetsWhether I enter the peopled temple,Whether I sit by thoughtless youth,Haunt my thoughts me everywhere.I say, Swiftly go the years by:However great our number now,Must all descend the eternal vaults,—Already struck has some one's hour.And if I gaze upon the lonely oakI think: the patriarch of the woodsWill survive my passing ageAs he survived my father's age.And if a tender babe I fondleAlready I mutter, Fare thee well!I yield my place to thee. For me'T is time to decay, to bloom for theeEvery year thus, every dayWith death my thought I joinOf coming death the dayI seek among them to divine.Where will Fortune send me death?In battle? In wanderings, or on the wavesOr shall the valley neighboringReceive my chilled dust?But tho' the unfeeling bodyCan everywhere alike decay,Still I, my birthland nighWould have my body lie.Let near the entrance to my graveCheerful youth be in play engaged,And let indifferent creationWith beauty shine there eternally.1829.[RIGHTS.]IV. 10Not dear I prize high-sounding rightsBy which is turned more head than one;Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to meThe blessed lot of discussing fates,Of hindering kings from fighting one another;And little care I whether free the press is.All this you see are words, words, words!Other, better rights, dear to me are;Other, better freedom is my need....To depend on rulers, or the mob—Is not all the same it? God be with them!To give account to none; to thyself aloneTo serve and please; for power, for a liveryNor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend:Now here, now there to roam in freedomNature's beauties divine admiring,And before creations of art and inspirationMelt silently in tender ecstasy—This is bliss, these are rights!....THE GYPSIESIV. 157Over the wooded banks,In the hour of evening quiet,Under the tents are song and bustleAnd the fires are scattered.Thee I greet, O happy race!I recognize thy blazes,I myself at other timesThese tents would have followed.With the early rays to-morrowShall disappear your freedom's trace,Go you will—but not with youLonger go shall the bard of you.He alas, the changing lodgings,And the pranks of days of yoreHas forgot for rural comfortsAnd for the quiet of a home.THE DELIBASHIV. 155Cross-firing behind the hills:Both camps watch, theirs and ours;In front of Cossaks on the hillDashes 'long brave DelibashO Delibash, not to the line come nigh,Do have mercy on thy life;Quick 't is over with thy frolic bold,Pierced thou by the spear shalt beHey, Cossak, not to battle rushThe Delibash is swift as wind;Cut he will with crooked sabreFrom thy shoulders thy fearless head.They rush with yell: are hand to hand;And behold now what each befalls:Already speared the Delibash isAlready headless the Cossak is!

Notes

MY PEDIGREE. (Page 61.)

These lines owe their origin to a public attack on Pushkin by Bulgarin, a literary magnate of those days. Bulgarin disliked Pushkin and, therefore, saw no merit in his poetry. But unable to argue against his poetry, he argued against Pushkin's person, and abused the poet for his fondness to refer to his ancient ancestry. Stung to the quick by a childish paragraph in Bulgarin's organ, "The Northern Bee," Pushkin wrote these lines. But on their publication which, I think, took place some time after they were written, though they went into circulation immediately, they made much bad blood. The Menshchikofs did not like to be reminded of the cakes their ancestor sold, nor the Rasumofskys of the fact that their countship was earned by the good voice of the first of that name. And the Kutaissoffs did not like to be told that Count Kutaissoff was originally Paul's shoe-black. The very pride in his ancestors, which made Pushkin ridiculous in the eyes of his enemies, made him forget the fact that selling cakes and blacking shoes, even though they be an emperor's, is by no means a thing to be ashamed of; and that, even if it were a thing to be ashamed of, the descendants of evil-doers are by no means responsible for the deeds of their ancestors.... The poem, therefore, is an excellent document, not only for the history of the nobility of Russia, but also for that of poor Pushkin's soul.

Nobleman by cross. There are two kinds of noblemen in Russia: those who inherit their title, and those who acquire it. Whoever attains a certain cross as a reward for his service under the government (not, alas, the cross of true nobility, Christ's cross!) becomes thereby a "nobleman."