Chapter III: Introduction (2)

Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice,
Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes;
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory
Receives a freshness and a strength from thee.

Roll on! no clouds shall on thy waters lie
Darkling: no gloomy thunder-tempest break
Over thy face: let the black night-dews fly
Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak
In distance and in nearness: be it thine
To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine.

Thou parent of the waterfall! proud river!
Thou northern thunderer, Suna! hurrying on
In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever
Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun,
Now dashing from the mountain to the plain,
And scattering purple fire and sapphire rain.

’Tis momentary vehemence: thy course
Is calm and soft and silent; clear and deep
Thy stately waters roll: in the proud force
Of unpretending majesty, they sweep
The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly,
Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea.

Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed,
Washes the golden banks that o’er thee smile;
Until the clear Onega drinks its tide,
And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil:
O what a sweet and soul-composing scene,
Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene!

THE LORD AND THE JUDGE[15].

The God of heaven stood up, and loudly
Thus to the gods of earth he spoke:
“How long shall folly triumph proudly,
And virtue wear its heavy yoke?

’Tis yours, however high the wronger,
The wrongs of misery to redress;
Defend the weaker from the stronger,
Widow and orphan shield and bless.

To guard the naked head of sorrow,
To make the path of wisdom light;
To free the prisoner; and to borrow
My attributes for _truth_ and _right_.”

They _will_ not hear, see, know--O never;
Dark mists are on their vision thrown.
And shall the sick earth groan for ever?
Wilt Thou not tire, long-suffering one?

Kings! gods of earth! no earthly being
May bid you at his bar appear;
Yet there is _One_ all-knowing--seeing--
Who sits in sternest judgement there.

Proud as ye are, your gems imperial
Shall fall like leaves:--your kingdoms--graves;
Your martial pomp--a pall funereal;
Your throne--looked down on by your slaves.

God of the righteous! God, arise Thee!
Hear the faint prayers Thy children bring!
Judge, scatter all who dare despise Thee,
And be the earth’s unrivalled King!

ON THE DEATH OF COUNT ORLOV.

What do I hear? An eagle from heaven’s cloudy sea,
Midst the high-towering hosts that swam
Before Minerva’s steps, when she
To earth from proud Olympus came:
That eagle, sailing in its state,
Heralding Russia’s naval might,
Pierced by the fatal spear of fate,
Falls rustling from the glorious height!

Alas! alas! whither his flight through heaven’s blue vault?
Where is his path on ocean’s deep?
Where is his fearful thunderbolt?
Where do his forked lightnings sleep?
Where is the bosom nought could fright,
The piercing, penetrating mind;
’Tis all, ’tis all enshrined in night;
He left us but his fame behind!

SONG.

Golden bee! for ever sighing,
Round and round my Delia flying;
Ever in attendance near her:
Dost thou really love her, fear her,
Dost thou love her,
Golden bee?

Erring insect! he supposes,
That her lips are morning roses:
Breathing sweets from Delia’s tresses,
He would probe their fair recesses.
Purest sugar
Is her breast!

Golden bee! for ever sighing,
Ever round my Delia flying;
Is it thou so softly speaking?
Thine the gentle accents breaking,
“Drink I dare not,
Lest I die!”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This is the poem of which Golovnin says in his narrative, that it has been rendered into Japanese, by order of the emperor, and is hung up, embroidered with gold, in the Temple of Jeddo. I learn from the periodicals, that an honour something similar has been done in China to the same poem. It has been translated into the Chinese and Tartar languages, written on a piece of rich silk, and suspended in the imperial palace at Pekin.

[2] In the first edition there was a deviation from the original in this verse. A translator is bound not to alter the sense of his author, and I had certainly exceeded the limits which are in any case allowed. I have been reproved for the variation I had introduced. The reproof was just, and might have been more severe.

[3] The force of this simile can hardly be imagined by those who have never witnessed the sun shining, with unclouded splendor, in a cold of twenty or thirty degrees of Reaumur. A thousand and ten thousand sparkling stars of ice, brighter than the brightest diamond, play on the surface of the frozen snow; while the slightest breeze sets myriads of icy atoms in motion, whose glancing light and beautiful rainbow-hues dazzle and weary the eye.

[4] Julius Cæsar.

[5] Belisarius, who, by the way, is the subject of many Russian Poems.

[6] It is scarcely necessary to explain, that Romanzov is the old hero whom the poet means to depicture, and that these stanzas refer to his victories over the Turks. To Romanzov a long and laudatory poem was addressed from London by Petrov in celebration of these successes.

I must here disclaim all sympathies with the poet in the admiration he expresses of the warlike character. The victims of the executioner are at all events doomed to death by the forms and with the solemnities of justice. Those of the conqueror hurry into another world under the influence of crimes and passions which, while indeed they unfit them for this, will serve but as a fearful passport for eternity. I should as soon think of celebrating the carousals of a horde of cannibals, as of giving the attractions and decorations of song to those dreadful scenes of sin and misery which men call victories: and I blush for my country and for my race when I reflect, that in the very proportion of the wickedness implied, and the wretchedness produced, are they made the subjects of pride and congratulation, and honoured with the designations “great” and “glorious!” Man was surely born to nobler and better things than these.

[7] “The ebony and amber sea”--the Euxine and the Caspian.

[8] “Evening’s side”--the west.

[9] The white czar (bæloi tzar), a common appellation of the Russian emperor.

[10] Original:

Grokhochet ekho po goram
Kak grom gremjeshchij po gromam.

[11] Catherine.--This was one of her favourite titles; and in the character and dress of Minerva she is often represented on her medals.

[12] The roofs of many of the apartments of the Tavrid palace were decorated with golden stars.

[13] _Bulava_--the Hetman’s staff.

[14] This is somewhat of an anachronism, as the Poet died before his patron.

[15] In the former edition this poem was printed in another shape, and was then attributed to Lomonosov. It belongs, however, to Derzhavin, and is here restored to its proper author and to its original measure.

BATIUSHKOV.

TO MY PENATES.

Fatherland Penates! come,
Kind protectors of my home!
Not in gold or jewels rich--
Can ye love your simple shrine?
Smile, then, sweetly from your niche
On this lowly hut of mine.
Thus removed from worldly care,
I, a wearied wanderer,
In this silent corner here,
Offer no ambitious prayer.
Here if ye consent to dwell,
Happiness shall court my cell.
Kind and courteous ever prove,
Beaming on me light and love!
Not with streams of fragrant wine,
Not with incense smoking high,
Does the poet seek your shrine--
His is mild devotion’s sigh,
Grateful tears, the still soft fire
Of feeling heart: and sweetest strains,
Inspired by the Aonian quire.
O Lares! in my dwelling rest,
Smile on the poet where he reigns,
And sure the poet shall be blest.
Come, survey my dwelling over;
I’ll describe it if I’m able:
In the window stands a table,
Three-legged, tott’ring, with a cover,
Gay some centuries ago,
Ragged, bare and faded now.
In a corner, lost to fame,
To honour lost, the blunted sword
(That relic of my fathers’ name)
Harmless hangs, by rust devoured.
Here are pillaged authors laid--
There, a hard and creaking bed:
Broken, crumbling, argile-ware;
Furniture strewed here and there.
And these in higher love I hold,
Than sofas rich with silk and gold,
Or china vases gay and fair.
Kind Penates! thus I pray--
O may wealth and vanity
Never hither find their way,
Never here admitted be!
Let the vile, the slavish soul,
Let the sons of pomp and pride,
Fortune’s spoilt ones, turn aside;
Not on them nor theirs I call!
Tottering beggar! hither come,
_Thou_ art bidden to my home;
Throw thy useless crutch away;
Come--be welcome and be gay!
Warmth and rest thy limbs require,
Stretch thee by my cheerful fire:
Reverend teacher! old and hoary,
Thou whom years and toils have taught,
Who with many a storm hast fought,
Storms of time and storms of glory!
Take thy merry balalaika[1],
Sing thy struggles o’er again;
In the battle’s bloody plain,
Where thou swungst the rude nagaika[2];
Midst the cannon’s thunder-roar,
Midst the sabres clashing o’er;
Trumpets sounding, banners flying
O’er the dead and o’er the dying;
While thy never-wearied blade
Foes on foes in darkness laid.
And thou, Lisette! at evening steal,
Through the shadow-cover’d vale,
To this soft and sweet retreat;
Steal, my nymph, on silent feet.
Let a brother’s hat disguise
Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes;
O’er thee be my mantle thrown,
Bind my warlike sabre on:
When the treacherous day is o’er,
Knock, fair maiden, at my door;
Enter then, thou soldier sweet!
Throw thy mantle at my feet;
Let thy curls, so brightly glowing,
On thy ivory shoulders flowing,
Be unbound: thy lily breast
Heave, no more with robes opprest!
“Thou enchantress! is it so?
Sweetest, softest shepherdess!
Art thou come indeed to bless
With thy smiles my cottage now?”
O her snowy hands are pressing
Warmly, wildly pressing mine!
Mine her rosy lips are blessing,
Sweet as incense from the shrine,
Sweet as zephyr’s breath divine
Gently murmuring through the bough;
Even so she whispers now:
“O my heart’s friend, I am thine;
Mine, beloved one! art thou.”
What a privileged being he,
Who in life’s obscurity,
Underneath a roof of thatch,
Till the morning dawns above,
Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch,
In the arms of holy love!
But the stars are now retreating
From the brightening eye of day,
And the little birds are greeting,
Round their nests, the dewy ray.
Hark! the very heaven is ringing
With the matin song of peace:
Hark! a thousand warblers singing
Waft their music on the breeze:
All to life, to love are waking,
From their wings their slumbers shaking;
But my Lila still is sleeping
In her fair and flowery nest;
And the zephyr, round her creeping,
Fondly fans her breathing breast;
O’er her cheeks of roses straying,
With her golden ringlets playing:
From her lips I steal a kiss;
Drink her breath: but roses fairest,
Richest nectar, rapture dearest,
Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss,
Never were as sweet as this.
Sleep, thou loved one! sweetly sleep;
Angels here their vigils keep!
Blest, in innocence arrayed,
I from fortune’s favours flee;
Shrouded in the forest-shade,
More than blest by love and thee.
Time on dove-like wing glides by:
O! has gold a ray so bright
As thy seraph-smile of light
Throws o’er happy poverty?
Thou good genius! in thy view
Wealth is vile and worthless too:
Riches never brought thee down
From thy splendour-girded throne;
But beneath the shadowy tree
Thou hast deigned to smile on _me_.
Fancy, daughter of the skies,
Thoughts, on wings of light that rise,
Waft my spirit gay and free,
When the storm of passion slumbers,
Far above humanity,
To the Aonian land of numbers,
Where the choirs of music stray;
Rapture, like a feather’d arrow,
Bursting life’s dark prison narrow,
Bears me to the heavens away.
Sovereigns of Parnassus! stay
Till the morning’s rosy ray
Throws its brightness o’er your hill,
Stay with nature’s poet still.
O reveal the shadowy band,
Minstrels of my fatherland!
Let them pass the Stygian shore,
From the ethereal courts descending:
Yonder airy spirits o’er,
O! I hear their voices blending:
List! the heavenly echoes come
Wafted to my privileged home;
Music hovers round my head,
From the living and the dead.
Our Parnassian giant[3], proud,
Tow’ring o’er the rest I see;
And, like storm or thunder loud,
Hear his voice of majesty.
Sons and deeds of glory singing
A majestic swan of light;
Now the harp of angels stringing,
Now he sounds the trump of fight;
Midst the muses’, graces’ throng,
Sailing through the heaven along;
Horace’ strength, and Pindar’s fire,
Blended in his mighty lyre.
Now he thunders, swift and strong,
Even like Suna o’er the waste[4];
Now, like Philomela’s song,
Soft and spring-like, sweet and chaste,
Gently breathing through the wild,
Heavenly fancy’s best loved child!
Gladdening and enchanting one[5]!
History’s gayest, fairest son!
He who oft with Agathon
Visits evening’s fane of bliss:
Or in Plato’s master tone,
Near the illustrious Parthenon,
Calls the rays of wisdom down
With a voice sublime as his.
Now amidst the darkness walking,
Where old Russia had her birth:
With the Vladimirij talking,
As they ruled o’er half the earth:
Or Sclavonian heroes hoary,
Cradled in a night of glory!
Sweetest of the sylphs above[6],
And the graces’ darling, see!
O how musically he
Tunes his Citra’s melody,
To Dushenka[7] and to love.
Near, Meletzy smiling stands,
Mutual thoughts their souls employ;
Heart in heart, and hands in hands,
Lo! they sing a song of joy;
Next engaged with love in play,
Poets and philosophers,
Close to Phædrus and Pilpay[8],
Lo! Dmitriev appears
Sporting like a happy child,
Midst the forest’s tenants wild,
Garlanded with smiling wreaths;
Truth unveiled beside him breathes.
See two brothers toying there,
Nature’s children--Phœbus’ priests:
Krĭloff leading Khemnitzer!
Teaching poets! ye whose song
Charms the idle moments long,
When the wearied spirit rests.
Heavenly choir! the graces twine
O’er you garlands all divine;
And with you the joys I drink,
Sparkling round Pierian brink,
While I sing in raptured glory,
“_Ed io anche son pittore_.”
Friendly Lares! O conceal
From man’s envious, jealous eye,
Those sweet transports which I feel,
Those blest rays of heart-born joy!
Fortune! hence thy treasures bear,
And thy sparkling vanities:
I can look with careless eyes
On thy flight--my little bark,
Safely led through tempests dark,
Finds a peaceful haven here--
Those who sported in thy ray
From my thoughts have passed away.
But ye gayer, wiser ones,
Glory’s, pleasure’s cheerful sons!
Ye who with the graces walk,
Ye who with the muses talk;
Hurrying o’er life’s visions gay
In intellectual children’s play;
Careless, joyous sages!--you,
Philosophers and idlers too!
Ye who hate the chains of slavery!
Ye who love the songs of bravery!
In your happiest moments come,
Come, and crowd the muses’ home.
Let the laugh and let the bowl
Banish sorrow from the soul:
Come, Zh******, hither hieing,
Time is like an arrow flying--
Pleasure like an arrow fleet:
Here let friendship’s smile of gladness
Brighten every cloud of sadness--
Wreathe with cypress, roses sweet.
Love is life;--thy garlands bring,
V****, while they’re blossoming:
Bind them blooming round our brow--
Bacchus, friends! is with us now.
Favourite of the muses, fill:
Pledge and drink, and pledge us still!
Aristippus’ grandson--thou!
O thou lov’st the Aonian lasses,
And the harmonious clang of glasses;
But when evening’s silence fills
All the vales and all the hills,
Thou, remote from worldly folly,
Tak’st thy walk with melancholy;
And with that unearthly dame
(Contemplation is her name)
Who conveys the illumined sense
In sublime abstraction hence--
Up to those high and bright abodes
Where men are angels--angels, gods.
Give me now thy friendly hand;
Leave for me thy spirit-land!
Come, companion of my joy,
We will all time’s power destroy
On our _chazha solotoi_[9].
See behind, with locks so gray,
How he sweeps life’s gems away;
His remorseless scythe is mowing
All the flowers around us blowing.
Be it ours to drive before us
Bliss--though fate is frowning o’er us!
Time may hurry, if he will;
We will hurry swifter still;
Drink the cup of ecstasy,
Pluck the flow’rets as we fly,
Spite of time and destiny:
Many a star and many a flower
Shine and bloom in life’s short hour,
And their rays and their perfume
For _us_ shall shine--for _us_ shall bloom.
Soon shall we end our pilgrimage;
And at the close of life’s short stage
Sink smiling on our dusty bed:
The careless wind shall o’er us sweep;
Where sleep our sires, their sons shall sleep
With evening’s darkness round our head.
There let no hired mourners weep[10];
No costly incense fan the sod;
No bell pretend to mourn; no hymn
Be heard midst midnight’s shadows dim--
Can they delight a clay-cold clod?
No! if love’s tribute ye will pay,
Assemble in the moonlight ray,
And throw fresh flow’rets o’er my clay:
Let my Penates sleep with me--
Here bring the cup I loved--the flute
I played--and twine its form, though mute,
With branches from the ivy-tree!
No grave-stone need the wanderer tell,
That he who lived, and loved so well,
Is sleeping in serenity.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The balalaika is a two-sided musical instrument, of which the Russian peasants are extremely fond.

[2] The nagaika is a hard thong used by the Cossacks to flog their horses; but sometimes employed as a weapon of warlike attack.

[3] Derzhavin.

[4] In the original _steppe_; a long, mighty, barren, desert; such as the Siberian river (Suna) flows over.

[5] Karamsin.

[6] Bogdanovich.

[7] Dushenka (the diminutive of Dusha--the Soul), or The Little Psyche, is the title of the most celebrated poem of Bogdanovich.

[8] The wise man, who according to the oriental story (current also in Russia) received _Truth_ when she had been inhospitably driven from place to place. In Russia I have heard the fable thus:--A Vakir in his ramble trod where the ground re-echoed his footsteps--“It must be hollow here,” thought he; “I will dig, and I shall find a treasure.” He dug, and discovered a spring, from whence a beautiful and naked female sprung forth--“Who art thou, loveliest daughter of heaven?” said he. “My name,” she replied, “is Truth; lend me thy mantle.” This he refused to do; and she hastened to the city, where the poets found fault with her figure, the courtiers with her manners, the merchants with her simplicity. She wandered about, and none would give her an asylum, till she fell in with a poor man, the court news-writer, who thought she might be a very useful auxiliary: but she blotted out whatever he composed, so that no news was published for many days; and the sultan sending for his newsman to inquire the cause of his silence, was told the history of the intrusive guest, who was in consequence summoned to court. Here, however, she was so troublesome, turning every thing upside down, that it was determined to convey her away; and the sultan ordered her to be buried alive in his garden. His commands were obeyed by his courtiers; but Truth, who always springs up with renewed vigour in the open air, rose from her grave; and, after wandering about for some time, found the door of the public library open, went in, and amused herself by burning all the books that were there, with the exception of two or three. Again straying forth in search of an abode, she met a venerable man, to whom she told her story--and this was Pilpay. He received her to his house with a cordial welcome, and requested her company to his museum of stuffed beasts, birds, and insects. “Thou hast no discreetness,” said he; “in the world thou art constantly getting into scrapes: now take the counsel of an old man, make this cabinet thy abode; here thou hast a large choice of society, and here dwell.” She found the advice so reasonable that she adopted it; since when her voice is only heard in the language of fable, and her chosen interpreters are the animal creation.

Pilpay’s Fables were translated into French by Galland, 2 vols. 8vo. 1714. There are also several English translations.

[9] The golden cup.

[10] Plakalschitzii--women hired to mourn round a corpse.

LOMONOSOV.

EVENING REFLECTIONS, ON THE MAJESTY OF GOD, ON SEEING THE GREAT NORTHERN LIGHTS.

Now day conceals her face, and darkness fills
The field, the forest, with the shades of night;
The gloomy clouds are gathering round the hills,
Veiling the last ray of the lingering light.
The abyss of heaven appears--the stars are kindling round;
Who, who can count those stars, who that abyss can sound?

Just as a sand ’whelm’d in the infinite sea;
A ray the frozen iceberg sends to heaven;
A feather in the fierce flame’s majesty;
A mote, by midnight’s maddened whirlwind driven,
Am I, midst this parade: an atom, less than nought,
Lost and o’erpower’d by the gigantic thought.

And we are told by wisdom’s knowing ones,
That these are multitudes of worlds like _this_;
That yon unnumber’d lamps are glowing suns,
And each a link amidst creation is;--
There dwells the Godhead too--there shines his wisdom’s essence--
His everlasting strength--his all-supporting presence.

Where are thy secret laws, O nature, where?
Thy north-lights dazzle in the wintry zone:
How dost thou light from ice thy torches there?
There has thy sun some sacred, secret throne?
See in yon frozen seas what glories have their birth;
Thence night leads forth the day to illuminate the earth.

Come then, philosopher! whose privileged eye
Reads nature’s hidden pages and decrees:--
Come now, and tell us whence, and where, and why,
Earth’s icy regions glow with lights like these,
That fill our souls with awe:--profound inquirer, say,
For thou dost count the stars and trace the planets’ way!

What fills with dazzling beams the illumined air?
What wakes the flames that light the firmament?
The lightnings flash:--there is no thunder there--
And earth and heaven with fiery sheets are blent:
The winter night now gleams with brighter, lovelier ray
Than ever yet adorn’d the golden summer’s day.

Is there some vast, some hidden magazine,
Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies?
Some phosphorus fabric, which the mountains screen?
Whose clouds of light above those mountains rise?
Where the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea,
And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry?

Thou knowest not! ’tis doubt, ’tis darkness all!
Even here on earth our thoughts benighted stray,
And all is mystery through this worldly ball--
Who then can reach or read yon milky way?
Creation’s heights and depths are all unknown--untrod--
Who then shall say how vast, how great creation’s God?

ZHUKOVSKY.

THE MARINER.

Rudderless my shattered bark,
Driven by wild fatality,
Hurries through the tempest dark,
O’er the immeasurable sea.
Yet one star the clouds shines through;
Little star! shine on, I pray!
O that star is vanished too--
My last anchor breaks away.

Gloomy mists the horizon bound,
Furiously the waters roar;
Frightful gulfs are yawning round,
Fearful crags along the shore.
Then I cried in wild despair,
“Earth and heaven abandon me.”
Fool! the heavenly pilot there
May thy silent helmsman be.

Through the dark, the madden’d waves,
O’er the dangerous craggy bed;
Midst the night-envelop’d graves,
Lo! I was in safety led
By the unseen guardian hand;--
Darkness gone, and calm the air,
And I stood on Eden’s land;
Three sweet angels hailed me there!

Everlasting fount of love!
_Now_ will I confide in Thee:
Kneeling midst the joys above,
Thy resplendent face I see:
Who can paint Thee, fair and bright,
Thy soul-gladdening beauty tell?
Midst heaven’s music and heaven’s light,
Purity ineffable!

O unutterable joy!
In Thy light to breathe, to be;
Strength and heart and soul employ,
O my God, in loving Thee.
Though my path were dark and drear,
Holiest visions round me rise;
Stars of hope are smiling there,
Smiling down from Paradise.

ÆOLUS’S HARP[1].

In yon mansion of ages
Lives Morven’s famed chieftain, the valiant Ordāl;
Where the wild billow rages,
And scatters its foam on the time-hallowed wall;
Like a mountain in glory,
It towers o’er the wave,
And its oaks, old and hoary,
Come down to the shores which the white waters lave[2].

The stag-hound, the beagle,
With voices re-echoed, the wide forest fill;
To the throne of the eagle
They chase the wild boar and the goat up the hill;
And the stag from the heather:--
The valleys resound;
Horns, shoutings together,
Are mingled in rapid vibrations around.

All, all are invited--
And joy is let loose at the board of Ordāl;
The guests are united
Where wide-spreading antlers adorn the rude hall[3]:
Of ages departed
The glories are told;
And memory, full-hearted,
Sends back all its thoughts to the great ones of old[4].

Their helmets in order,
Their bucklers, and harness, and hauberks are hung
On the roof’s antique border[5]:
And there, while the deeds and the victories are sung
Of the heroes of story,
Ordāl proudly stands;
And a flash of their glory
Shines out from the cup which he waves in his hands[6].

He looks to the armour;
’Tis all that destruction hath left of their name;--
His bosom beats warmer,
His spirit is roused with the touch of their fame:
Though the helmets before them
Are broken and dim,
He remembers who wore them--
And, O, they are splendid and sacred to him[7].

Milvana the bright one[8]
The hall of her father resplendently fills;
As, with garments of light on[9],
A morning of summer walks up the fresh hills;
As from nature’s recesses
A free golden stream,
So her fine flowing tresses
O’er her soft-heaving bosom in luxury gleam[10].

Far fairer than morning[11].
She scatters around the soft lustre of soul;
Dark glances adorning
The flashes of fire from her eye-balls that roll;
Like the song of the fountain
Her mild accents fall;
Like the rose of the mountain
Her breath;--but her spirit is sweeter than all[12].

Her beauty’s gay splendour
has beamed in its brightness through far-distant lands:
What heroes attend her--
The castle of Morven is filled with their bands.
Its chieftain delighted
Weaves visions of pride;
But his daughter has plighted
Her hand to a bard with no glory allied.

Young, lovely, and lonely
As the rose in its freshness, he tuned his soft lays
In the deep valley only:
To him all unheard was the music of praise.
Milvana descended
From luxury’s throne:
Affection had blended
Her heart with a heart as unstained as her own.

In the black arch of heaven,
Like the shield of a warrior, the pale moon is hung[13];
Through the gloomy clouds driven,
Its light-streams o’er ocean’s wide surface are flung;
The dark shadows spreading,
From castle and grove,
Their giant forms shedding
Sublimely the waves and the waters above.

Where the mountain-cocks rally,
Where the waterfall bursts from the storm-cover’d rock
Ere it rush to the valley[14];
The oak was her witness, her shelter the oak:
Milvana retreating
To solitude there,
Her minstrel awaiting:--
She breathed not--her breath was suspended by fear.

His harp sounded lightly--
He came to the oak-tree--blest moments of love!
The moon glimmered brightly:
All stillness beneath and all beauty above.
What a temple for loving
For bosoms so bland!
And the waves, softly moving,
Convey their low music along the smooth strand.

They looked on the ocean;
With their soft pensive sadness it seemed to attune;
The waves’ gentle motion
Was silvered and marked by the rays of the moon.
“How brightly, how fleetly
The waters roll on!
So swiftly, so sweetly
Come pleasures and love--they smile and are gone.”

“Why sigh then, my fair one!
Though the waters may ebb and the years may decay?
My beloved! my dear one!
Can time on its wings bear affection away?
To a bard unbefriended
O say canst thou bow;
Thou, from monarchs descended,
And heroes, whom Morven is honouring now?”

“What is honour or glory?
What garlands so sacred as love’s holy wreath?
What hero-bright story
Has an utterance so sweet as affection’s young breath?
No fears shall confound us,
No sorrow, no gloom;
Joy is sparkling around us,
And let years follow years till life sinks in the tomb.”

“Come, joys that smile o’er us,
Ye sweets of a moment, come hither and stay!
For who can assure us
They will not be scattered by morning’s bright ray?
For morn will not linger,
Nor rapture remain;
I, again a poor singer,
And thou, a bright queen in thy splendour again[15].”

“Let the glance of day brighten,
Let its radiance be shed o’er the mountain and sea[16];
Thy smiles shall enlighten
All nature, while living, to love and to me;
With hope and with heaven,
With love and with thee,
What joys are not given?
For life has no transports that beam not on me.”

“The sun is returning;
The orient is pale with the promise of day;
The zephyrs of morning
Awakened, like waves on the mountain-tops play;”
“’Tis the northern light glancing
Across the dark sky,
Not the morning advancing;
Sweet winds! bring no morn from the mountains on high.”

“But list! to the bustling
Of voices; they wake in the castle ere now.”
“O no! ’tis the rustling
Of half-slumbering birds as they dream on the bough.”
“The orient is lighted,
Milvana! O why
Do my spirits, benighted
In doubt and foreboding, desert me and die?”

The youth has suspended,
In silence, his harp on the time-hallowed oak:--
“Unseen, unattended,
Let thy soft music speak, my sweet harp! as it spoke
In the luxury of sadness[17],
The fervour of truth,
The bright tones of gladness,
The songs and the smiles and the sunshine of youth.

“The bloom of the singer
Shall fade with the grief-blast, like flowers of the grove[18];
But here there shall linger,
The spirit, the youth and the fervour of love.
An angel here speaking,
Shall often be seen,
All those raptures awaking,
Which in days of our early devotion have been.

“My spirit shall hover
Like a light airy shade o’er the track of thy way;
Milvana! thy lover
Shall speak through his harp at the close of the day.
The grief that alarmed us,
Uncertainty’s fear,
The tears that disarmed us,
All, all of life’s sorrows shall fly from us here.

“When his life-term is ended,
Affection immortal shall live in his soul;
Our spirits there blended,
Shall love and be blest while eternities roll.
Thou oak-tree! wide-spreading,
O’ershadow the fair;--
Ye zephyrs! here shedding
Your fragrance, the freshness of sympathy bear.”

The big tears were falling:--
He ceased:--his eye fixed, but within, like a knell,
A low voice was calling[19]--
“Farewell! my Milvana! for ever farewell.”
His hand, damp and burning,
Had wildly seized hers:
Then hurriedly turning,
Like a phantom of fancy, the youth disappears.

The moon shone unclouded--
The maiden was there, but the minstrel was fled:
Like a silent tree shrouded
In darkness, she stood in the wilderness dread[20].
The chieftain his daughter
Had traced to the grove:
And now o’er the water
To exile, a bark is conveying her love.

At morn and at even
Milvana retires to the oak-tree to mourn;
And the stream that is driven
Adown the steep hill, seems her sighs to return.
“’Tis all dark and dreary,
Milvana! to thee,
Thy spirit is weary--
And thy minstrel shall never return to the tree.”

The evening wind waking,
Called up their soft sounds from the leaves as it roved:
The green branches shaking,
It kisses the harp--but the harp is unmoved.
Spring came, sweetly bringing
Her eloquent train[21],
And nature was ringing
With rapture, enkindling gay smiles through her reign.

On the emerald meadows,
And hills in the distance, are gold streams of light;
And soft silent shadows
Seem to spread over eve the calm stillness of night.
The stars are in motion
Across the blue deep:
Like a mirror, the ocean:
And the winds, hushed to silence, among the leaves sleep[22].

Milvana sat weeping
Beneath the old tree, but her thoughts were not there.
All nature lay sleeping,
When accents unearthly were heard in the air:
The green leaves are shaken--
It was not the wind[23]--
The silent strings waken:
Some ghost hurries by and leaves music behind[24].

The harp’s secret spirit
Breathed forth a long, sorrowful, heart-rending sound[25]:
She trembled to hear it,
’Twas softer than zephyrs when whispering around;
’Twas the voice of her lover;--
Her soul sunk in night[26]:
“’Tis over--’tis over--
The earth is a waste--he has taken his flight.”

In desolate madness
Milvana had fall’n in the dust[27]: but the tone
Still breathed its sweet sadness!
More sad as the soul that inspired it was gone.
Its music she heard not;
She woke faint and chill;
The star-lights appeared not--
’Twas morning--’twas morning, damp, dewy, and still.

From morrow to morrow,
She visited still the old oak of the wood;
There that music of sorrow
Still broke on her ear from the realms of the good.
While thus disunited,
On earth could she stay,
By her minstrel invited
To the heaven where her thoughts and her hopes led the way?

Thou harp of my bosom,
Be still--let thy voice drown the summons of death;
The delicate blossom,
Unopened, shall fade in the valley beneath:
The wanderer roaming
To-morrow will come--
“My floweret, where blooming[28]?”
“Thy floweret!--’tis withered--it sleeps in the tomb.”

She is dead--but whenever
A black, starless mantle is hung o’er the skies;
When from fountain, and river,
And hill, the cold mists like the dark billows rise,
Two shades are seen blending,
United as when
In their youth-tide attending[29];--
And the oak waves its boughs, and the chords speak again.

SONG.

Say, ye gentle breezes, say,
Round me why so gently breathing?
What impels thee, streamlet! wreathing
Through the rocks thy silver way?

What awakens new-born joy,
Joy and hope thus sweetly mingled;
Say, has pilgrim-spring enkindled
Rapture with her laughing eye?

Lo! heaven’s temple, bright, serene,
Where the busy clouds are blending,
Sinking now, and now ascending,
Far behind the forest green!

Will the High, the Holy One
Veil youth’s soul-enrapturing vision?
Shall I hear in dreams elysian
Childhood’s early, lovely tone?

See the restless swallow flies
Through the clouds--his own dominion;
Could I reach on hope’s strong pinion,
Where that land of beauty lies!

O how sweet--how blest to be
Where heaven’s shelter might protect me!
Who can lead me--who direct me
To that bright futurity?

ROMANCE.

Gather’d yon dark forest o’er
Lo! the gloomy clouds are spread:
Bending toward the desert shore,
See the melancholy maid;
Her eyes and her bosom are wet with tears;
All heaven is black, and the storm appears;
And the wild winds lift the billows high,
And her breast is heaving with many a sigh.

“O my very soul is faded,
Joy and sympathy are fled;
Nature is in darkness shaded,
Love and friendship both are dead.
The hope that brightened my days is gone!
O whither, my angel! art thou flown?
Too blest was I, too wild with bliss,
For I lived and loved, and loved for this!

“Swell then, burning tears! the deep,
Flow, with yonder billows flow:
And ye lonely forests! weep,
Meet companions of my woe.
My days of pleasure, though short and few,
Are fled for ever--O earth! adieu!
He sleeps--will death restore him? Never!
For the joy that’s lost is lost for ever.

“Nature’s sad and wintery day
Is of momentary gloom:
Soon in Spring’s reviving ray
All her loveliness shall bloom.
But joy has never a second spring:
And time no ray of light can bring
But from tearful eyes:--there’s no relief
From dark despair’s corroding grief!”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It will immediately occur to the readers of Ossian, that the personages, sentiments, and scenery of this poem are derived from him. The conviction of their high antiquity (notwithstanding what Adelung has written) is very general in the north of Europe, and I have often heard that conviction expressed by those who have gone very profoundly into the history of Runic and Gothic poetry. Whatever be their date, the inquiry as to their literary merit is very distinct from it. With the exception of Gray’s Elegy, (of which I have seen a collection of more than one hundred and fifty versions,) there is nothing, probably, in our language, which has been more frequently translated. There are many translations and imitations in Russian besides this of Zhukovsky,--by Kostrov, Grædich, Visheslavtzev, Oserov, Kapnist, &c.

To the first edition I added a specimen of Dutch poetry, of which Ossian was the subject, and ventured to speak of the great excellence of Vondel, Hooft, Helmers, Tollens, and other poets of Holland. I have now decided on publishing a little volume of _specimens_, in which I have made considerable progress.

[2] High walls rise on the banks of the Duvranna, and see their mossy towers in the stream; a rock ascends behind them with its bending pines. Thou may’st behold it far distant.--_Oithona._

[3] Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields, and youth of heavy looks came to Rurmar’s echoing hall--they came to woo the maid.--_Cath-Loda._

[4] Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds! their souls are kindled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times; their eyes are flames of fire.--_Fingal._

[5] When a warrior was so far advanced in years as to be unfit for the field, it was the custom to hang up his arms in the great hall, where the tribe feasted on joyful or remarkable occasions.

[6] Is the remembrance of battles pleasant to the soul? Do we not remember with joy the place where our fathers feasted?--_Temora._

[7] Not unmarked by Sul-Malla is the shield of Morven’s king. It hangs high in my father’s hall in memory of the past.--_Sul-Malla._

[8] Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was heaven’s bow in showers. Her dark hair flowed around it like the streaming clouds.--_Cath-Loda._

Her soul was like a stream of light.--_Colna-Dona._

[9] She was a light on the mountain.--_Temora._

[10] Her breast rose slowly to sight, like the ocean’s heaving wave.--_Colna-Dona._

[11] Her face was like the light of the morning.--_Dar-Thula._

[12] She appeared lovely as the mountain flower, when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered sides.--_Prel. Discourse to Ossian._

[13] O thou that travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield of the mighty.--_Prel. Discourse to Ossian._

His shield is terrible, like the bloody moon ascending through a storm.--_Temora._

[14] Lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my woods--to the roar of my mountain-streams.--_War of Caros._

As the falling brook to the ear of the hunter descending from his storm-covered hill; in a sun-beam rolls the echoing stream.--_Cathlin of Clutha._

It is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes between its echoing rocks to the blasted field of the sun.--_Temora._ Gray streams leap down from the rocks.--_Ibid._

[15] The melancholy character of the whole of this passage, may serve to recall Ossian’s sublimely beautiful and tender song of sorrow. I shall be excused for introducing it.--“Desolate is the dwelling of Moina: silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us; for one day we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert come! we shall be renowned in our day. The mark of my arm shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round the shell; let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven! shalt fail--if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is for a season, like Fingal,--our fame shall survive thy beams.”--_Carthon._

In the same touching spirit is the noble address to the sun.--“O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! whence are thy beams, O sun!--thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty, the stars hide themselves in the sky: the moon cold and pale sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain--the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.”--_Ibid._

[16] The mountains are covered with day.--_Temora._

[17] Pleasant is the joy of grief.--_Carrie-thura._

[18] Thy death came like a blast from the desert and laid my green head low: the spring returned with its showers, no leaf of mine arose.--_Croma._

[19] Within my bosom is a voice--others hear it not.--_Temora._

[20] Night came: the moon from the east looked on the mournful field: but they stood still like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal.--_Carthon._

[21] So hears a tree in the vale the voice of spring around, and pours its green leaves to the sun.--_Temora._

[22] Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the sky? The west has opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves come to behold thy beauty: they lift their trembling heads; they see thee lovely in thy sleep; but they shrink away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun! and let thy return be in joy.--_Carric-thura._

[23] Doth the wind touch thee, O harp! or is it some passing ghost?--_Berrathon._

[24] The harps of the bards were believed to emit melancholy and unwonted sounds prophetic or commemorative of the death of any renowned and worthy person. This was attributed to the _light touch of ghosts_. The music was called the warning voice of the dead.

The harps of the bards untouched, sound mournful over the hill.--_Temora._

The lone blast torched their trembling strings: the sound is sad an low.--_Ibid._

[25] The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain shrieked. The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently touched my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the tomb.--_Dar-Thula._

[26] Darkness covers my soul.--_Prel. Discourse._

Darkness gathered on Utha’s soul.--_Carric-thura._

[27] Her dark brown hair is spread on earth.--_Ibid._

[28] Why did I not pass away in secret like the flower of the rock, that lifts its head unseen and shows its withered leaves to the blast?--_Oithona._

They fall away like the flower on which the sun hath looked in his strength after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with the drops of night.--_Croma._

[29] It was a current opinion, that the spirits of women hovered over the earth in all their living beauty, and were often seen gliding along like a sun beam on a hill.

She was like a spirit of heaven half folded in the skirt of a cloud.--_Temora._

The sky grew dark: the forms of the dead were blended with the clouds.--_Ibid._

Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark thick mist on Lena, where it wanders, with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise without song to the dwelling of winds.--_Ibid._

Two spirits of heaven standing each on his gloomy cloud.--_Ibid._

The flower hangs its heavy head, waving at times to the gale. “Why dost thou awake me, O gale!” it seems to say, “I am covered with the drops of heaven: the time of my fading is near--the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come. He that saw me in beauty shall come--his eyes will search in the fields, but they will not find me.”--_Berrathon._

KARAMSIN.

THE SONG OF BORNHOLM.

Curses on the world’s decree!
That decree which bid us part:
Who has e’er resisted thee,
Passion-throbbing, maddened heart?

Is aught holier than the light
Kindled in our souls by heaven?
Is aught stronger than the might
Given to love--to beauty given?

Yes! I love--shall ever love!
Curse the passion if ye will,
Call down vengeance from above,
Still I love--adore her still!

Holy Nature! I, thy child,
To thy sheltering bosom flee:
Thou hast fanned this flame so wild,
I am innocent with thee.

If to yield to passion’s sway,
Be a dark and damning sin;
Why hast thou, O tempter! say,
Lighted passion’s fires within?

No! thy storm-winds as they rolled,
Gently rocked our secret bed;
And thy thunder, though it growled,
Never burst upon our head.

Bornholm! Bornholm! to thy home
Memory--wildered memory flies:
Thither would my spirit roam
From its tears--its agonies!

Vain the wish! an outlaw I,
Followed by a father’s curse;
Doomed in banishment to die,
Or despairing live--as worse!

Lila! has thy spirit shrunk
From thy woes, and found a grave?
Has thy burthened misery sunk
In oblivion’s silent wave?

Let thy shadow then appear,
Smile upon me from the tomb;
Give me, love! a welcome there,
Come, though veil’d in darkness,--come!

THE CHURCH-YARD.

FIRST VOICE.

How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind--the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!

SECOND VOICE.

How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep!
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flow’rets perfume it with ether.

FIRST VOICE.

There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

SECOND VOICE.

How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there:--but the nightingales come
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

FIRST VOICE.

The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave:--
’Tis the vulture’s abode:--’tis the wolf’s dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs

SECOND VOICE.

There the coney at evening disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod;--while the turtles above,
Repose on the bough that o’erhangs.

FIRST VOICE.

There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath,
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death,
The trees are all barren and bare!

SECOND VOICE.

O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.

FIRST VOICE.

The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears
He is launched on the wreck-covered river!

SECOND VOICE.

The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes for ever.

AUTUMN.

The dry leaves are falling;
The cold breeze above
Has stript of its glories
The sorrowing grove.

The hills are all weeping,
The field is a waste,
The songs of the forest
Are silent and past:

And the songsters are vanished;
In armies they fly
To a clime more benignant,
A friendlier sky.

The thick mists are veiling
The valley in white;
With the smoke of the village
They blend in their flight.

And lo! on the mountain
The wanderer stands,
And sees the pale autumn
Pervading the lands.

Thou sorrowful wanderer.
Sigh not--nor weep!
For nature, though shrouded,
Will wake from her sleep.

The spring, proudly smiling,
Shall all things revive;
And gay bridal-garments
Of splendor shall give.

But man’s chilling winter
Is darksome and dim;
For no second spring-tide
E’er dawns upon him.

The gloom of his evening,
Time dissipates never:
His sun when departed
Is vanisht for ever.

LILEA.

What a lovely flower I see
Bloom in snowy beauty there--
O how fragrant and how fair!
Can that lily bloom for me?
Thee to pluck, be mine the bliss,
Place upon my breast and kiss!
Why then is that bliss denied?
Why does heaven our fates divide?

Sorrow now my bosom fills;
Tears run down my cheeks like rills:
Far away that flower must bloom,
And in vain I sigh, “O come!”
Softly zephyr glides between,
Waving boughs of emerald green.
Purest flow’rets bend their head,
Shake their little cups of dew:
Fate unpitying and untrue.

Fate so desolate and dread
Says, “She blossoms not for thee;--
In vain thou shedd’st the bitter tear,
Another hand shall gather her:--
And thou--go mourn thy misery.”
O flower so lovely! Lilea fair!
With thee I fain my fate would share,
But heaven hath said, “It cannot be!”

EPIGRAM.

TO NICANDER.

You talk of your taste and your talents _to_ me,
And ask my opinion--so don’t be offended:
Your taste is as bad as a taste can well be:
And as for your talents--_you_ think them most splendid.

DMITRIEV.

DURING A THUNDER-STORM.

It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above:
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! trembling like a timid child,
I hear Thy awful voice--alarmed--afraid--
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.

Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies--
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
_There_ is he lost midst heaven’s high mysteries,
And _here_ in error and in darkness lost:
Beneath the storm-clouds, on life’s raging sea,
Like a poor sailor--by the tempest tost
In a frail bark--the sport of destiny,
He sleeps--and dashes on the rocky coast.

Thou breathest:--and th’ obedient storm is still:
Thou speakest;--silent the submissive wave:
Man’s shatter’d ship the rushing waters fill,
And the husht billows roll across his _grave_.
Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy momentary dream:
And Time, when view’d through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.

THE TZAR AND THE TWO SHEPHERDS.

The tzar has wandered from the city-gate,
To seek seclusion from the cares of state;
And thus he mused; “What troubles equal mine!
_That_ I accomplish when I purpose _this_:--
In vain I bid the sun of concord shine,
And toil unwearied for my subjects’ bliss;
Its brightness lasts a moment, and the tzar
For the state’s safety is compell’d to war,
God knows I love my subjects--fain would bless them,
But oft mistake--and injure and oppress them.
I seek for truth, but courtiers all deceive me;
They fill their purses and deluded leave me!
My people sigh and groan:--I share their pain,
And struggle to relieve them, but in vain.”

Thus mused the lord of many nations; then
Looked up, and saw wide scatter’d o’er the glen
The poor lean flocks:--the sheep had lost their lambs,
And the stray’d lambkins bleated for their dams:--
They fled from place to place, alarm’d, afraid;
The lazy dogs were sleeping in the shade!
How busy is the shepherd!--now he hies
To the grove’s verge:--now to the valley flies:--
Seeks to assemble here the sheep that stray,
And there a favourite lamb he hurries on:
But lo! the wolf!--he springs upon his prey;
The shepherd hastens, but the thief is gone:
He cries--he beats his breast--he tears his hair,
Invoking death in agonized despair.

“Behold my picture!” said his majesty,
“Here is another sovereign, just like me:--
I’m glad to know vexations travel far,
And plague a shepherd as they plague a tzar.”

And on he moved in more contented mood--
Whither he knew not;--but beyond the wood
He saw the loveliest flock that ever grazed,
And linger’d, mute with wonder, as he gazed:--
How strong, how sleek, how satisfied, how fair!
Wool soft as silk, and piled in luxury there,
Its golden burthen seemed too great to bear.
The lambs, as if they ran for wagers playing,
Or near their dams, or far--securely straying--
The shepherd, ’neath the linden-tree,
Tuned his pipe most joyfully!

“Ah!” said the tzar, “ye little think
How close ye stand on danger’s brink,
The uncharitable wolf is near:--
And he for music has no ear.”

And so it was--as if the wolf had heard,
Advancing in full gallop he appear’d.

But the dogs, the wily traitor knew,
Sprung up, and at the robber flew:--
His blood has for his daring paid;
And the lambkin that through fear had stray’d,
Is gather’d into the fold anew;
And the shepherd’s pipe was echoed still,
Down the vale and up the hill.

The monarch lost all patience now:--
“What! dost thou sit there like a rock,
While wolves are ravaging thy flock?
A very pretty shepherd thou!”

“Tzar! here no evil can betide my sheep,
_My dogs are faithful--and they do not sleep_.”

THE BROKEN FIDDLE.