Chapter I: Part 1

РОССІЙСКАЯ АНТОЛОГІЯ.

SPECIMENS OF THE RUSSIAN POETS,

WITH _INTRODUCTORY REMARKS_.

PART THE SECOND.

_Вамъ, вамъ плетутъ Хариты Безамертные вѣнцы! Я вами здѣсь вкушаю Восторги Піеридъ, И въ радости взываю: О Музы! я Піитъ!_ БАТЮШКОВЪ

BY

JOHN BOWRING, F.L.S.

AND HONORARY MEMBER OF SEVERAL FOREIGN SOCIETIES.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, AVE-MARIA LANE.

1823.

LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

TO HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY ALEXANDER, AUTOCRAT OF ALL THE RUSSIAS, _&c. &c. &c._

The flattering mark of approbation with which you were pleased to honour the former volume of the Russian Anthology, induces me to inscribe the name of your Majesty upon the dedication page of this.

When the delusions of conquest and the records of political changes shall have passed away, the purer and nobler triumphs of civilization and literature will be remembered, and bear along the stream of time, to the gratitude of future generations, the names of their illustrious protectors. To have contributed to their influence is a glory which no time can tarnish--it is worthy of the worthiest--it will be your highest title--a title brighter than the brightest jewel of your imperial crown.

The destiny of millions is in your Majesty’s hands. Under your auspices, your empire has made gigantic strides in knowledge and in power. The future is formed by the present. O, be it your most imperial ambition to make that knowledge and that power the source of virtue and of liberty! Such are the wishes, and such the hopes, of one to whom your reputation is dearer than to a thousand flatterers, and who is, in all sincerity,

Your Majesty’s most obedient,
And devoted humble servant,
JOHN BOWRING.

_Boulogne Prison,
Oct. 20, 1822._

INTRODUCTION.

I am encouraged to commit another volume of ‘Specimens of the Russian Poets,’ to that opinion which so kindly welcomed, and so favourably judged the former. I write now, instructed, and I hope benefited, by the very extensive notice which the first essay obtained; and I may indulge an honest feeling of complacency and pride in remembering, that, in almost every instance, candour and generosity characterised the literary articles to which my experiment gave birth. I avoided, generally, any criticism on the works for which I requested the patient judgment of my countrymen. I deemed the object most interesting to trace the early developement of poetical literature in a nation bursting into civilization. The spectacle was before me, and its phenomena left a strong impression on my mind. I was witnessing not a family, not a tribe, not a feeble community passing from barbarism to light and knowledge, but a mighty people whose aspirations after political influence, and whose excitements to foreign conquests, were among the most striking facts which accompanied their onward progress. Others, I thought, could not fail to trace the influence of their early literature upon their future destiny. It was my object to gather together the mementos which their poets strewed around them as they moved forward. I have continued my labours, and I believe, that while philosophy will find much matter for sober thought in these varied pages, the statesman will do well to study the tendency and the character of that fountain-head of popular feeling whose waters will spread over generations of men, and over the widest empire of the world.

I have said that the intellectual state of a country cannot be judged of by its productions of literature or of art: and I suspect strange delusions exist in our minds with regard to the attainments of the mass of society in those countries which our classical associations hallow with every thing that is bright and beautiful. America has produced no Murillo, no Cervantes, no Calderon; yet who would hesitate to rank her people far above the unenlightened--the brave, the generous, though unenlightened--inhabitants of the European peninsula? The extreme depression of the many leads to the extraordinary elevation of the few, and poetry sits on the very pinnacle of civilization. It may rear itself like a pyramid, where all around is a waste. So, a land may be covered with verdure and cultivation, where no column is raised to commemorate the past--where no pile makes an appeal to the sympathies of the future--where the generations of men flourish and fade, ‘and the place that knew them knows them no more.’ The possession of every object of reasonable desire leaves little scope to the imagination, which is the child of hopes and fears. Such a land, however, must necessarily be the abode of freedom, for freedom alone can give that equality of rights whose influence produces universal happiness. A real equality of rights, and of security in their possession, will necessarily bring with them something like an equality of knowledge, at least of that knowledge which has the most direct influence upon human felicity. Well understood freedom is that which provides for the well-being of the great majority of mankind--it is that which leaves in every individual’s hand the greatest possible sum of political influence and power which is consistent with the interest of the whole. Despotism is that which provides for a small minority by the sacrifice of the mass of society; it is that which arms itself with the greatest possible sum of authority, and leaves no strength, and will communicate no intelligence to the people. A strong government--a government too strong to be influenced by the national will, and which makes no real appeal to that will, must necessarily be a bad government. That government is alone wise, and that government is alone legitimate, which requires and possesses the support of popular opinion, and which is too weak to oppose, and too honest to wish to oppose, that sanction by which it was created, and by which it may be destroyed.

The history of time gone by will afford few facts to assist us in judging of the tendencies of those marvellous changes which are now going on in the intellectual world. Truth and knowledge shut up in a few individual minds, and enlightening only a narrow circle already half enlightened, had nothing to connect them with the great masses of society. They were torches which blazed in a chamber, leaving darkness behind them, till other torches were kindled. Now the light of instruction is unextinguished--is inextinguishable. It is not exclusive in its blessings, nor bounded in its journeyings. Its roots are planted among the poor. They are entering on their heritage, which cannot be taken from them. The treasure is confided to their keeping--to the keeping of the many and the strong.

But though society is obviously tending to a state in which some of its existing gradations must necessarily be destroyed, in which the wider repartition of knowledge must inevitably lead to a more equal distribution of wealth, of political power and of consequent enjoyment, it must be borne in memory, that the influence of intellect is incredibly great, and that the master-minds of a nation give a deep impression to the national character. I have done violence to my feelings by translating many of the military and warlike productions of the Russian poets; but they will not be without their use. They will serve to show how the feelings of hatred and malevolence are excited; how that love of outrage which is called ‘martial spirit’ creeps into the bosom of a people, and corrodes all the mild and all the generous virtues. They will show the arts by which the slumbering passions are aroused, and how terrible it is to arouse them. Nor will such compositions excite _our_ sympathy--they are directed against us as well as others. Our shame and sin are indeed heavier and older than theirs. Let us never forget, that he who hates another prompts another to hate him. We cannot keep all the malevolence and all the vengeance for ourselves; it will return upon us with renewed strength and redoubled ferocity. The wound may be inflicted for a momentary purpose, but we leave the weapon there to canker and fester for ever.

On other grounds their introduction is almost indispensable. They are a necessary and an important part of the general picture. Among these compositions, that of Zhukovsky, ‘The Minstrel in the Russian Camp,’ is perhaps the most popular of modern poetical productions in Russia.

So much for generalities, which I hope will not be thought misplaced. And if some regret be felt, that so many of the Russian poets have followed the example of us, ‘the more enlightened nations,’ in their admiration of heroes and conquerors, and in their laud of restless and ruthless ambition, some of them are entitled to a higher and a nobler praise--they have sung the gentler influences of truth, and knowledge, and virtue, the progress of civilization, and the spreading happiness of man.

A remark has been made and repeated on the subject of the former volume: ‘These poets have little originality.’ Now something must be allowed for the extreme difficulty of preserving in translation all the characteristics of the author. Many phrases cannot be verbally rendered--many associations cannot be felt. To a Russian _red_ and _beautiful_ are synonymous; he uses the same word for both. How can the imagery of his mind be transferred to an English reader? Besides, too much is expected on the score of originality. Man is every where the same being, with the same feelings and affections, the same senses, and nearly the same desires: their modifications are but slightly varied by circumstances, and the great tablet of nature too has far less variety than we are wont to deem. Does a Russian see any thing brighter than the sun, or vaster than the ocean, or more beautiful than a cloudless night? Is any thing more venerable than his mountains, or more poetic than his streams? Such are _his_ elements of song--are they not also ours? The subjects of poetry too are less extensive while general literature is in its cradle, and their number is still more limited where the form of government prevents the mind from attaining its full expansion, and bars out some of the warmest and sublimest feelings--such as indignation against oppression--and others of the tenderest--such as sympathy with the oppressed. The intenser passions of the poet, unable to exercise themselves in the high range of patriotism, are spent in the songs of love and valour; while his calmer affections dwell among the daily business of society, recording the joy of the parent over the new-born infant, the rapture of the bridegroom, or the plaints that wail the dead. The poetry which is here presented is the poetry of a highly-imitative, strongly-feeling, but despotically-governed people, erected upon a magnificent, sonorous, and flexible language, blending something of the wildness of oriental character with the sternness and the sobriety of European precision. That the impress of our literature, and that of our neighbours, is to be most distinctly traced, is quite certain. Nearly half the poetry which Russia possesses is translation. Their leading authors have travelled, and have taken back with them the treasures they found: and they have done good service. The most obvious resemblance is to the German school: and to the honour of Germans be it said, that their influence on the civilization of Russia has been most extensive and most salutary. Their patient industry, their general intelligence, their social habits of life, have so interblended them with the Russian people, working a silent but an effective change, that the whole mass will become leavened with their long-suffering, their industrious, and intellectual virtues. The necessary result of an habitual intercourse with foreign nations--an intercourse established by Peter the Great, and most wisely encouraged by all his successors, was the introduction of models which placed the poets of Russia, as to form at least, on a level with the most cultivated people of the south. Their language easily lent itself to all the varieties of versification, and without the gradations of advancing improvement, they adopted a style of poetical composition which they have found no reason to modify or to change.

On the whole, the present volume will possess a character much more decidedly national than the former. A variety of poems immediately connected with the earlier history of Russia, and others representing the peculiar habits of the Russians, are introduced. The national songs, especially, will, I trust, excite some attention. These are the poetry of the people. These are the fragments whose authors are never raised from the darkness of oblivion--these are the joy and the study of the peasantry, their consolation in the dreariness of their wintry dwellings, conveyed from tongue to tongue through many a generation. These are no subjects for criticism, for criticism cannot reach them--it cannot abstract one voice from the chorus, nor persuade the village youths and maidens that the measure is false, or the music is discordant. The forms of versification, though some of them are rude and irregular, I have endeavoured to preserve, as a part of their original charm. I have heard them sung in the wooden huts of the cottagers; and have been cheered by them when the boor has whirled me in his uncouth sledge over the frozen snow. The rude melody, often gentle and plaintive, in which they found utterance, still vibrates in my ear. I ask for them no admiration--they are the delight of millions. The fame of the Iliad is nothing to theirs!

I had not seen the _Poetische Erzeugnisse_ of Karl Friedrich von der Borg, printed at Dorpat in 1819, when the former volume was published. I confess I was surprised at the almost verbal resemblance of some of his translations to my own. In this second volume I have been able to strengthen myself with his opinion as to the selection, and to avail myself of his most interesting Specimens for my assistance. His fidelity is admirable.

This volume was written during my solitary confinement in the prison of Boulogne: it made days and hours swift and pleasurable, which might have been most long and wearisome. When my spirit reposed from that exciting indignation which seemed to exhaust its energies, it was among the poets of Sclavonia that it lingered. I shall recal this memorable epoch of my life with gratitude and pride--gratitude to that active sympathy which my situation awakened, and pride in the recollection, that in the darkest moment no dejection, far less despondency, had place in my mind. I could picture, and did picture every thing that injustice, cruelty, and violence, might assemble for my humiliation or my destruction. I communed with my conscience, and anticipated the worst with cheerfulness. Surely there is something in principles which cannot be shaken by the terrors of life, nor the fears of death.

J. B.
_Boulogne Prison,
Oct. 25, 1822._

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION v

Lomonossov 1

Derzhavin 15

Dmitriev 23

Zhukovsky 57

Karamsin 117

Dolgorukov 133

Batiushkov 141

Merslakov 159

Voeikov 167

Muraviev 173

Kapnist 185

Petrov 189

Shatrov 205

Væsemsky 213

Milonov 221

Khovansky 233

National Songs 237

_RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY._

LOMONOSSOV.

ODE.

FROM JOB.

O man! whose weakness dares rebel
Against the Almighty’s strength, draw nigh
And listen, for my tongue shall tell
His message from the clouded sky.
Midst rain, and storm, and hail, he spoke,
Around the piercing thunder broke;
At his proud word the clouds disperse,
And thus he shakes the universe:

‘Come forth, then, in thy pride and power--
Come answer me, thou son of earth!
Where wert thou in that distant hour
When first I gave creation birth?
When all the mountain’s heights were rear’d,
When all the heavenly hosts appear’d,
My wisdom and my strength’s display?
Man! let thy towering wisdom say!

‘Where wert thou when the stars, new born,
Sprung into light at my command,
And fill’d the bounds of eve and morn,
And sung the intelligence that plann’d
Their course sublime? When first the sun
On wings of glory had begun
His race, and oceans of pure light
Wafted mild Luna through the night.

‘Who bid the ascending mountains rise?
Who fix’d the boundary of the sea?
Who, when the waves attack’d the skies,
Confined their furious revelry?
The caverns hid in darkness I
Unveil’d--my breath of majesty
Dispersed the gathering mists--my hand
Divided ocean from the land.

‘Say, canst thou bid the morning dawn
At earlier hour than I have given,--
Or water the rain-thirsty lawn
When I have shut the gates of heaven?
Canst thou a favouring breeze prepare
To waft the anxious mariner;
Or guide this earthly ball--to crush
The vile--and the tumultuous hush?

‘Say, hast thou scaled the mountain’s height,
Or sounded ocean’s vast abyss;
Or measured all that infinite
Immensity that o’er thee is?
Or couldst thou ever penetrate
Those clouds so dark, so desolate,
That round death’s midnight-portal dwell?
Or dive into the depth of hell?

‘Couldst thou with tempests fill the cloud,
The glory of the sun to hide;
And in yon bright cerulean shroud
The lightning and the watery tide:
With swiftly-gathering fiery flash,
And with the mountain-shaking crash,
Tear earth’s foundations up, and show
What dust is thy poor world below?

‘Tell me, thou scrutinizing mind,
Who leads the eagle’s flight sublime?
His pinions are the mighty wind,
His path beyond or earth or time;
Far o’er the sea, on some tall rock,
He looks upon the surge’s shock.
Who could his craving wants supply?
Who gave him that sun-dazzling eye?

‘Look at the awful behemoth--
Read there, vain man! my power’s display:
Go! see him trample, in his wrath,
The thorny forests in his way.
His veins are hard as cables--try
With him thy arm of potency!
His ribs are brass--his giant horn
Puts all thy boastful strength to scorn.

‘Go! hook the huge leviathan,
And draw him subject to the shore;
The ocean is his kingdom--man!
His course, the boundless waters o’er:
The scales upon his sides are bright
As silver shields in Luna’s light:
He sees, in mockery, frowning lord!
Thy threatening spear and sharpen’d sword.

‘A millstone is his heart--his row
Of teeth like sickles, threat’ning still:
Who shall attack him--hero! who?
He waits the strife with ready will.
He basks him in the sunny beam
On the sharp rock--’tis smooth to him--
His strong impenetrable mass
Sleeps as it were on sand or grass.

‘When he prepares him for the fray,
The ocean like a furnace gleams;
The thundering surges mark his way,
His anger like a caldron steams;
His eyes with burning fury roll,
As in a forge the scarlet coal.
All fly before him--“Who shall stand
Before my frown, when I command?”

‘When my high will creation’s plan
And self-supported wisdom drew,
Did I consult thee, feeble man!
To tell me what my hand should do?
Why didst thou not my purpose check,
Thou who wert then an atom speck,
And say, when I was framing thee,
“Why art thou thus creating me?”’

Insolent mortal!--bow thy head:
God’s wisdom and God’s goodness trace;
In the safe path He marks thee--tread--
’Tis He who fix’d thy earthly place;
And joy and grief alike are given
To lead thee on thy way to heaven:
Then hope and bear--in patience bear--
And throw on Him thy woe, thy care.

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

O’er the wide earth yon torch of heavenly light
Its splendour spreads, and God’s proud works unveils;
My soul, enraptured at the marvellous sight,
Unwonted peace, and joy, and wonder feels,
And with uplifted thoughts of ecstasy
Exclaims, ‘How great must their Creator be!’

O, if a mortal’s power could stretch so high--
If mortal sight could reach that glorious sun,
And look undazzled at its majesty,
’Twould seem a fiery ocean burning on
From time’s first birth, whose ever-flaming ray
Could ne’er extinguish’d be by time’s decay.

There waves of fire ’gainst waves of fire are dashing,
And know no bounds; there hurricanes of flame,
As if in everlasting combat flashing,
Roar with a fury which no time can tame:
There molten mountains boil like ocean-waves,
And rain in burning streams the welkin laves.

But in Thy presence all is but a spark,
A little spark: that wond’rous orb was lighted
By Thy own hand, the dreary and the dark
Pathway of man to cheer--of man benighted;
To guide the march of seasons in their way,
And place us in a paradise of day.

Dull night her sceptre sways o’er plains and hills,
O’er the dark forest and the foaming sea;
Thy wond’rous energy all nature fills,
And leads our thoughts, and leads our hopes to Thee.
How great is God! a million tongues repeat,
And million tongues re-echo, ‘God, how great!’

But now again the day-star bursts the gloom,
Scattering its sunshine o’er the opening sky;
Thy eye, that pierces even through the tomb,
Has chased the clouds, has bid the vapours fly;
And smiles of light, descending from above,
Bathe all the universe with joy and love.

EVENING MEDITATIONS,

ON SEEING THE AURORA BOREALIS.[1]

The day retires, the mists of night are spread
Slowly o’er nature, darkening as they rise;
The gloomy clouds are gathering round our head,
And twilight’s latest glimmering gently dies:
The stars awake in heaven’s abyss of blue;
Say, who can count them?--who can sound it?--who?

Even as a sand in the majestic sea,
A diamond-atom on a hill of snow,
A spark amidst a Hecla’s majesty,
An unseen mote where maddened whirlwinds blow,
Am I midst scenes like these--the mighty thought
O’erwhelms me--I am nought, or less than nought.

And science tells me that each twinkling star,
That smiles above us, is a peopled sphere,
Or central sun, diffusing light afar;
A link of nature’s chain:--and there, even there
The Godhead shines display’d--in love and light,
Creating wisdom--all-directing might.

Where are thy secret laws, O nature! where?
In wintry realms thy dazzling torches blaze,
And from thy icebergs streams of glory there
Are pour’d, while other suns their splendent race
In glory run: from frozen seas what ray
Of brightness?--from yon realms of night what day?

Philosopher, whose penetrating eye
Reads nature’s deepest secrets, open now
This all-inexplicable mystery:
Why do earth’s darkest, coldest regions glow
With lights like these?--O tell us, knowing one,
For thou dost count the stars, and weigh the sun.

Whence are these varied lamps all lighted round?
Whence all the horizon’s glowing fire?--the heaven
Is splendent as with lightning--but no sound
Of thunder--all as calm as gentlest even;
And winter’s midnight is as bright, as gay,
As the fair noontide of a summer’s day.

What stores of fire are these, what magazine,
Whence God from grossest darkness light supplies?
What wond’rous fabric which the mountains screen,
Whose bursting flames above those mountains rise;
Where rattling winds disturb the mighty ocean,
And the proud waves roll with eternal motion?

Vain is the inquiry--all is darkness--doubt:
This earth is one vast mystery to man.
First find the secrets of this planet out,
Then other planets, other systems scan;
Nature is veil’d from thee, presuming clod!
And what canst thou conceive of Nature’s God?

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This Ode was given in the first volume, but as it ought to accompany the poem which precedes it, it is now published in another form.

DERZHAVIN.

TO A NEIGHBOUR.

For whom these festal luxuries
On Neva’s foaming banks--for whom?
‘Neath intertwining, shadowing trees,
Where all is flowers, and fruits, and bloom;
Gay Persian tents emboss’d in gold,
And China vases manifold;
And sparkling glass from Austria sent;--
For whom--for what? O why abuse
Fortune? Why dissipate and lose
Gifts, which at best are only lent?

The song is heard--the chorus blends
Its louder tones;--’neath pines up-piled
And fruits, the wearied table bends;
And sweets--O silly, spendthrift child!
The senses are all feasted:--Maids
Pour forth the grape-juice--see, it spreads--
The world contributes: ancient Rhine,
Champagne, and Xeres, mingling come;
And British streams, and streams from home,
And Selzerswave and Moselle wine.

In a cool grot, whose fountains flow
Round alabaster piles and busts,
Stretch’d on a bed where roses grow,
The slave of thy unholy lusts,
Thou liest: a maiden, bright and fair,
And young, reposes near thee there--
A nymph with laughter in her eye:--
She sings--thou sinkest on her breast,
And, strangely wilder’d, thou hast prest
Her hand, in ecstasy of joy.

Thou sleepest--and thy dreams foretel
An everlasting heaven of bliss:
Its flowery buds around thee swell
With blossoms bright and blest as this.
Thou hast thy treasures, hast thy fields;
For thee Siberia’s bosom yields
Of countless wealth a rich display:
Thee, a proud stream of silver meets:--
O blessed! whom the morrow greets
As happy as the yesterday.

O blessed! in life’s vale below,
Who sees unmoved this shifting scene--
Who, though the mighty storm-winds blow,
But hears their rage, and is serene.
The thunder-clouds may o’er him roar,
The waves may spring the mountains o’er,
Scattering the sand and foam--’tis nought
To him--the torn and scatter’d wood
May leave a desert solitude--
He sits in calm and quiet thought.

Ours are but foolish wishes--change,
Change is the meteor we pursue:
When nought is wanting, then we range
And gasp, and grasp at something new.
The time of sorrow comes--thy maid
Betrays thee as she has betray’d
Other admirers--then the song--
Ay! all this noisy song will cease,
And thou be left to think in peace--
In sadness----Sorrow’s day is long.

Look! even now her eyes are darting
Less beams of love, of revelry.
Hark! from yon gathering clouds is starting
A fearful storm--thy ship’s at sea.--
No! no!--while all seems fair and bright,
O dream not thou of sorrow’s night!
Feast, neighbour, feast--and dance and sing--
Life’s sun has but a summer’s glow,
And joy is innocent--but know,
’Tis but that joy which bears no sting.

THE SHIPWRECK.

The silver moon the clouds looks through,
Her beams upon the waters float;
And midst the gathering mist and dew
The mariner has launch’d his boat.

And in that moonlight’s placid ray
His course across the deep he takes;
The welcoming port before him lay,
And in his bosom joy awakes.

But oh! he dashes on a rock--
His voice is choked--his eye is dim;
A moment struggling ’gainst the shock,
And then--the waves o’er-mantle him.

’Tis but life’s picture--for the tomb
Drags all things to its desolate cell:
Hope is a flower of morning’s bloom--
And love and friendship----fare ye well!

FRAGMENT.

The ass that looks upon the stars
Is not less asinine;--the base
And cowardly that boasts of scars,
Or wears a crown, may take the place
Of generous spirits, in the throng
Where usurpation reigns; for men
Confound the worthy with the strong,
Nor weigh pretension’s clamor vain.

The hollowest vessels sound the loudest,
The richest treasures deepest lie;
Yet piled up wealth, and rank the proudest,
Are but tumultuous vanity.
I am a prince--with princely spirit,
A ruler--if I rule my heart;
A titled heir--if I inherit
Of virtue, wisdom, truth, a part.

DMITRIEV.

JERMAK.

What vision, history, bring’st thou now
To flit before my wandering eye?
In the dark night, amidst the glow
Of the pale moon, that tremblingly
Shines, Irtish takes its wilder’d way:
It whirls--it wanders--and its spray
Is scatter’d o’er the rugged shore.
Two men are there--pale--bent beneath,
Like shadows from the realm of death.
Their brows are hung their bosoms o’er:
One young--a beard, by age made white,
Reach’d to the other’s waist--they wear
A simple ornament--affright
And terror seem attendants there.
Round their steel helmets many a bird
Flapping its ominous wing is heard,
And spectres rustle in the air:
Their vestments from the wild beasts’ lair
Were brought--their breasts in flint are wrapt,
And with the rime and hoar-frost capt;
A broad knife at their girt was hung;
Beneath them two tympanas lay,
And broken, worm-worn lances: they--
They were Siberian Shamana[1].
I listen’d there--and thus they sung:

OLD MAN.

Yes! Irtish, rage--thy murmuring roar
Echoes our griefs--the storm that lowers
Is meet--for all our sunshine’s o’er--
Ah, woe is ours!

YOUNG MAN.

Ah! woe is ours,
And fearful is time’s threatening frown!

OLD MAN.

Thou whose proud crown, in days of old,
Three different nations[2] shelter’d--known
To history--and by fame enroll’d,
Mother of many lands, and land
Of hoary-headed glory--thou--
Even thou, Siberia--thou must bow,
Smitten by desolation’s hand.

YOUNG MAN.

Thy people are all scatter’d now--
Scatter’d as the whirlwind drives the sand;
Thy Kutshum[3] is departed too--
Dead--distant from his father-land.

OLD MAN.

Thy Shamana are swept away
Whose fear, whose fame had fill’d the world.
Is it for this my hair is gray,
That century-aged warriors hurl’d
Into the dust--even from their tomb
Call--loudly call on others--Come,
And rouse again Shaitana’s[4] day?

YOUNG MAN.

Ye Gods! where was your conqueror then?

OLD MAN.

O miserable, mournful doom!
That handful of Muscovia’s men!--
O had the blasting lightning riven--
Deluge--or plague--the shame, the stain
Might have been borne--but Jermak!--Heaven!

YOUNG MAN.

O curse him now, Siberia’s hills!
Streams, vales, on him your curses be!
Night--starless night--Siberia fills--
The desolating demon he!

OLD MAN.

He came--a torch of fury lighted--
A frost, that all creation blighted!
Where’er he went his ravaging breath
Brought, like the withering pestilence, death!
And death ruled o’er our land benighted.

YOUNG MAN.

The brother of the king he slew.

OLD MAN.

With Mehmet Kul[5], Siberia’s pride,
I saw him struggle--and there flew
The whistling barbs on every side.
Kul from its sheathe the sabre drew,
And thus in generous rage he cried:
‘O mock not, death!--an unstain’d name
With chains--with infamy--or shame!’
Then rush’d he fiercely on the foe.
O fearful sight!--their sabres flash--
Their eyes are fire--and blow to blow
Is echoed in the horrid clash:--
Both swords are shiver’d--and they stand
Unarm’d, with upraised close-clench’d hand.
’Tis man to man, and breast to breast:
The forest glades the shock repeat,
And the earth shakes beneath their feet,
And their blood flows like rain--the best,
The bravest blood: their big hearts burst--
Their knees give way--their sinews crack--
Their flanks are broken--heat, and thirst,
And weariness:--’tis now the first--
’Tis now the second faints--th’ attack
Kindles again:--who wins?--Jermāk.
‘Mine art thou now--from this proud hour
All, all is conquer’d--all is won.’

YOUNG MAN.

Our thread of destiny is spun!
The victor’s desolating power
Has crush’d Siberia--but her sighs--
Her heavy groans----

OLD MAN.

Will ever rise.
But hear, my son!--At eventide,
In this dark solitude I trod,
And brought my offering to our God;
While sad devotion’s thoughts came o’er me,
A howling north wind by my side
Rush’d, scattering the riven leaves before me;
The hundred-winter oak trees mutter’d
Terrible sounds--the wild goat fled,
Affrighted, from his wonted bed;--
I fell:--some godlike voice thus utter’d:
‘Racha[6] no suppliant prayer shall hear
When spreading his avenging token.
Siberia! thou his laws hast broken--
Take thy reward--his curses bear:--
Thou the white monarch’s[7] slave shalt be,
And every day-break, every eve,
Shall fetter’d find thee--fetter’d leave;
And Jermak’s fame, and Jermak’s race,
Find an eternal resting-place,
Long as the moon its course shall keep.’
’Twas silence--and from heaven’s high doors
A thrice-repeated thunder roars,
Lost--lost in darkness drear and deep.
Oh! woe is ours----

YOUNG MAN.

O woe is ours!

Then sighing--trembling--then they rose
From the cold rock where lichen grows;
They raise their war-arms from the sand,
And wandering slowly ’long the strand,
The mist conceals them from my eye.

Thy dust, Jermāk, sleeps still and calm,
But Russia shall erect on high
Thy pyramid, and shall embalm
Thy name with flowers and poetry:
A pile of gold, which thy good spear
Won from Siberia, shall she rear!
What said I, thoughtless one!--what dream
Has passion in its sleep created?
Where is his fane?--the dust of him
Is lost--his grave unconsecrated,
Unknown:--_that_ dust the wild-boars tread;
The savage Ostyaks there chase,
With their wing’d barbs, the timid race
Of fawns o’er the vast desert spread.
But be consoled, thou heir of fame!
The genius of the lyre is come
To sing her matins o’er thy tomb;
And many an angel guards thy name
While seated on thy ruins:--verse
Shall thus her sweetest strains rehearse;

‘Great One! who in the hoary time
Wast born--and victory led thee on--
Death stopp’d thee in thy course sublime,
And now thy very dust is gone.
Though thy forefathers sought their food
In the rude plain and wilder’d wood;
Though savage wolves escorted thee,
And fame ne’er spread thy feats abroad,
Yet still thy glory’s majesty
Endures--and thou art half a God.
From age to age--above decay,
Till lasting night time’s day shall close;
Till the proud heavens shall pass away,
And Time upon his scythe repose[8].’

MOSKVA RESCUED.

Receive the minstrel wanderer
Within thy glades, thou shadowy wood!
No idle tone of joy be here;
Nor let even Venus’ song intrude!
Fair Moskva’s smile my vision fills--
Her fields, her waters,--towering high,
And, seated on her throne of hills,
A glorious pile of days gone by.

O Moskva, many a nation’s mother,
How bright thy glances beam on me!
Where, like to thee--where stands another--
Where, Russia’s daughter, like to thee!
As pearls thy thousand crowns appear,
Thy hands a diamond sceptre hold;
Thy domes, thy steeples bright and clear,
Like sunny rays on eastern gold.
The treasures of the orient meet
Those of the west: through every street
A stream of wealth and luxury flows.
Thy sons are natural heirs of fame,
Courage and glory shrine their name;
Thy daughters--lovely as the rose.

But war has spread its terrors o’er thee,
And thou wert once in ashes laid;
Thy throne seem’d tottering then before thee,
Thy sceptre feeble as thy blade.
Sarmatian fraud and force, o’er-raging
The humbled world, have reach’d thy gate;
Thy faith with flattering smiles engaging,
Now threatening daggers on thee wait--
And they were drawn--thy temples sank--
Thy virgins led with fetter clank--
Thy sons’ blood streaming to the skies--
‘Spirit of vengeance! now arise.
Save me, thou guardian angel!--save!’
So criedst thou in thy agony.
Thy streets are silent as the grave--
The unsheath’d sword--it hangs o’er thee.

And where is Russia’s saviour--where?--
Stand up--arouse thee--in thy might!
Moskva alarm’d--surrounded there
And clouded, as a winter’s night.
Look!--she awakes--she knows no fear,
And young and old, and prince and slave;--
Their daggers flash like boreal light;
They crowd--they crowd them to the fight.
But who is that with snowy hair--
The first--that stern old man--the tide
Of heroes he leads onward there!
Pozharsky--Russia’s strength and pride!
What transport tunes my lyre!--my lays
Seem glowing with celestial fire:
O! I will sing that old man’s praise;
Shout loudly now, thou heavenly choir!
I hear--I hear the armour’s sound:
The dust-clouds round the pillars rise--
See! Russia’s children gather round.

Pozharsky o’er the city flies,
And from death’s stillness he awakes
The very life of valour.--Lo!
Midst the star’s light, and sunny glow,
He forms the firm courageous row.
Here--there: hope, joy, again appear:
The burghers gather round him there,
And range them for the combat now.

‘And why this crowd?’ a warrior calls
From a high pinnacle[9]--he saw--
His senses whelm’d in fear and awe--
He fled from Kremlin’s royal walls.
‘Sarmatians! to your swords!’ he said;
‘Delay not, for we are betray’d:
‘I saw the gathering enemy
‘Stretch’d like a waking snake along:
‘They gain the city rapidly--
‘The fields are cover’d with the throng.’
’Tis bustle all--’tis all dismay;
What crowds of soldiers fill each street!
Round walls and gates their cohorts meet,
And like a whirlwind urge their way
To where Sclavonian thunders roar!

And see! how bright the heaven is glowing!--
What smoke--what flame--what blood is flowing!
Sword echoes sword the wide plain o’er;
Whole ranks are harvested that stood
Like the firm oak trees of the wood:
The bullets o’er the field are flying--
Here sleep the dead, there shriek the dying:
There, staggering ’neath a lance’s wound,
A wild-horse madly stamps the ground,
Flies--falls--and covers, as he dies,
The turf on which his rider lies:
Still the storm struggles in the air,
And agony is every where.

Death is the conqueror!--death--despair!
They rule o’er village, field, and grove:
A wounded maiden tears her hair,
A hoary sire just looks above,
Then to the ground--and sleeps serenely.
Come, moralist! and study here:
See that poor orphan, suffering keenly,--
His star is sunk; the starting tear
That falls for those whose blood was spilt--
For others’ interests, others’ guilt,
Trembles upon his cheeks; the fate
Of war hath left him friendless--best
Were it for him to join the rest,
Nor live thus drear and desolate.

And thrice the day hath seen the strife,
And thrice hath dawn’d Aurora blithe;
The battle-demon sports with life,
Death waves untired his murderous scythe.
Pozharsky’s thunder still is heard;
He speeds him like the eagle-bird
Following his prey--destroying--crushing,--
Then on the Poles with fury rushing,
He scatters them like flying sands,--
That giant of the hundred hands.
On! On!--What transports of delight!
‘Hurrah! Pozharsky wins the fight!’
The city joins the ecstasy--
‘O yes! our Moskva now is free!’

O memorable morning’s ray!
O ne’er to be forgotten day,
What painter’s pencil shall portray thee,
And in thy natural joy array thee,
And tell each bosom’s rapture then!
Millions in wild delight!--they crowd
Upon the bulwarks, shouting loud:--
The very roofs are made of men.
What flower-wreathes o’er the streets they flung,
What triumph-songs the churches sung;
How high, how bright the banners hung,
And palms crown’d every citizen!

Where is the hero?--where is he
Who led our sons to victory?
List to that cry of eloquence--
‘What--what shall be his recompense?’
Look!--He who made the invaders bleed,
And Moskva and his country freed,
He--modest as courageous--he
Takes the bright garland from his brow,
And to a youth he bends him now--
He bends his old and hero-knee.
‘Thou art of royal blood,’ he said,
‘Thy father is in foemen’s hand;
‘Wear thou that garland on thy head,
‘And bless, O bless our father-land!’

Valiant old hero! Russia’s pride,
And Russia’s love,--I bless thee now.
By the gigantic mountain’s side
May everlasting waters flow;
May marshes turn to groves and woods;
Out of our wastes may gardens grow;
And in our barren solitudes
May cities flourish--and decay:
While generations pass away,
And brighter lights disperse their ray;
Yet thou shalt be the poet’s charm,
And thou shalt be the warrior’s glory,
Through never-ending time to warm
The bosom with thy patriot story.

TO THE VOLGA.

Now furl your sails--and heaven be blest!
For we have reach’d the promised land:
And, Volga, thou whose wavy breast
Has brought us to this smiling strand--
Volga!--the king of waters--named
The great, the proud, the glorious--famed
In history--now farewell! ’Twas thou
Who listenedst to the poet’s song
Ere mingled with earth’s busy throng:
To thee his Muse was wont to bow.

And all my hopes have now been crown’d,
And every joy has been fulfill’d,
Which, when my childish thoughts look’d round,
Some fond aspiring dream instill’d.
When towards thy banks I stretch’d my eye,
Peopled thy shores with industry,
Spread on thy waves the silver sail!--
The dream is realised--I view
The picture which my fancy drew--
Vision of promised brightness--hail!

I held sweet converse with thy winds,
I heard thy waves, thy tempests roar;
I read each threatening cloud that binds
The soul in fear, and shakes the shore.
As from a tower I look’d, the height
Of granite mountains dimm’d my sight;
And lost, and wondering as I view’d,
I ask’d--Who saw the days of yore?
Proud cities rise her borders o’er,
Where ’twas a desert’s solitude!

Here, meadows, villages, and herds,
And smiling cottages are placed;
There, flowers and furze, and savage birds,
Are the sole tenants of the waste,
And nought seems wanting to my sight.
I hear--I hear the gay delight
Of dancing nymphs midst yonder trees;
They fill the air with melody,
While, from his gloomy cavity,
The savage boar their revelling sees.

The sailor, as he skims thy wave,
Gathers the listening crew around,
And pointing to a crumbling grave,
Says, ‘Rasin there his dwelling found.’
But pensive silence checks his tongue,
The damp sweat on his brow is hung,
His finger trembles, frozen by cold;
For o’er his thoughts there rush a throng
Of the wild images which song
Hath gather’d from the mists of old.

Yes! midst the ruins time hath pil’d,
There strides upon thy waves the wan
And awful form of John the Wild,
The terrible of Astrachan.
I see his hordes, in rude affright,
Raining, from yonder vineyard’s height,
Their arrow streams upon the Russ--
The Russ--who hurries to the fray
And conquers--see those hordes obey,
And, trembling, yield their land to _us_.

I heard the Caspian oracle
Speak in a voice of thunder--‘See!
‘Persians! your fate how terrible:
‘He comes--the lord of victory!
‘A thousand bolts his hand sends forth,
‘He rules the south, he guides the north,
‘The crescent and the lion flee!
‘Hark! for he comes--their future king
‘The subject waves of Volga bring,
‘Derbent! thy lord of victory.’

So spake the sea-god--and his tears
Fell from his watery eyes like rain;
The waves roll’d round the man of years,
He plunged him in the waves again.
But, Volga, brighter triumphs thou
Wreath’st in thy glory-garland now,
And fairer palms of victory wave;
The Caspian trembles at thy feet,
The Sound, the Belt, thy trophies greet,
And all the ocean is thy slave.

And shalt thou not be sung, bright river?
And like thy blessings be thy praise;
Shall music’s voice be dead for ever,
Nor to thy fame one anthem raise?
O would the god of song inspire,
Ganges ne’er heard so loud a lyre
As I would tune, sweet stream, for thee!
Euphrates and old father Nile,
Before thy glory should be vile,
And earth resound thy majesty!

ENJOYMENT.

_Naslazhdenie._

Let each his wayward will pursue,
I envy not the laurel bough:--
I’ll have the myrtle drench’d in dew,
Which thou hast smiled on--maiden, thou!

I’ve seen the hero seek the fray,
I’ve seen the sage illume the world;
What then? They sparkled through their day,
And were to death’s oblivion hurl’d!

And whether roses o’er them bloom’d,
Or nettle weeds oppress’d the ground;
They were in silence’ breast entomb’d,
Nor heeded all that pass’d around.

Then grief begone--and welcome joy!
And three times welcome, love’s sweet bliss!
For as our days like arrows fly,
How precious every moment is!

Perchance e’en now the mandate’s given
To call the hurrying pilgrim home;
Perchance the azure arch of heaven
Now hears the summons--‘Mortal--come!’

O tarry not, fair maiden! give
Thy hours to rapture, and be blest!
And live, since time is fleeting, live
While pleasure’s life-blood warms thy breast.

_Akh! kogda ja prezhde snala!_

O had I but known before
What a misery love might be!
Had that bright star, shining o’er,
Ne’er employ’d its witchery--
O had I refused to bear
This his ring, that magic spell--
Never sought the window where
He was smiling--it were well!

When the light of passion shone,
Well I might have pass’d it by;
Let the wax-wing’d child fly on
Tow’rds some maid less blest than I:
Wherefore did I seek the grove
Where the swain was wandering then--
Met him with a look of love--
Left him--and return’d again?

Ah! that heart, that was so gay,
Sinks ’neath sorrow’s heavy load:
Wretched one--I turn’d away:--
Fix’d me in the public road--
Wept and wail’d--Art thou unmoved,
Passing traveller?--pity me!
He was faithless that I loved:--
Set me from love’s misery free!

_Stonet sisĭi golubochik._

Once a gentle turtle dove
Night and day dishearten’d mourn’d;
He was widow’d of his love,
She had fled, but not return’d.

He, whose wooing voice was heard
Constant as the break of day,
Pined, and droop’d--the faithful bird
Still, and sad, and silent lay.

While his thoughtless partner flew
Here and there--with all she sported:
All she wish’d to know, or knew,
Greeted, trifled with, or courted.

Oft he look’d, but look’d in vain,
He so faithful, fond, and true;
Slowly pined he ’neath his pain,
Strength departed, sorrow grew.

See, his head is ’neath his wing:
Coldness o’er his bosom creeps--
Ah! poor solitary thing!
All is still--the turtle sleeps.

Then the giddy, gadding dove,
Fluttering gaily, thither hies,
Takes her station by her love--
‘Husband! wake thee now,’ she cries.

With her wings she fans the dead,
Bitterest thoughts begin to flow:--
Chloe! tell me, hast thou read?
I’m a widow’d turtle too.

TO CHLOE.

Of all flowers the fairest
Is the rose to me;
I had deem’d it dearest
For its constancy.

Every day completer
Seem’d it to my view,
And its breath was sweeter,
Brighter was its hue.

Trust not Fortune’s blossom,
For my rose I found
On the mountain’s bosom
Choked with absinth round.

Yet it had not perish’d;
Still in smiles it shone--
’Twas the rose I cherish’d,
But--its breath was gone.

Chloe! I bethink me
What a rose thou art!
Foolish one! to link me
To a woman’s heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The principal inhabitants and warriors of Siberia.

[2] The Tartar, the Ostyak, and the Bogulich nations.

[3] Kutshum lost his kingdom, and delivered himself up to the Calmucks, by whom he was afterwards slain.

[4] The idols of Siberia.

[5] Mehmet-Kul was the king’s brother, whom Jermak made prisoner and sent to the Tzar Ivan Vassilievich. The noble family of Sibinsky have their origin from him.

[6] Racha was the Jupiter of the Ostyaks. Kutshum, who was bred in the Mahommedan faith, whether by argument or by force, caused the adoption of the Koran through a great part of Siberia.

[7] The Russian Tzar.

[8] The crown of Kutshum is still preserved in the museum at Moskow, among the imperial insignia. The events referred to in the above poem occurred in the year 1580. Ataman Jermak was sent by Ivan Vassilievich against Kutshum, and drove him from his capital, called Siberia (whence the name of the country): it was situated near Tobolsk.--See Karamsin’s History of Russia.

[9] The French also employed the steeples of Moskva as watch-houses or observatories.

ZHUKOVSKY.

THE MINSTREL IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP[1].

MINSTREL.

Now silence wraps the battle field!
The tents with lights are gleaming;
And lo! the bright moon’s silver shield
In the calm heaven is beaming.
Fill, fill the glass of rapture, yet,
In unity full-hearted;
In wine the bloody strife forget,
The grief for the departed!
The glasses’ ruby stream to drain
Is glory’s pride and pleasure--
Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
Thou art the hero’s treasure.

WARRIORS.

O yes!--the ruby stream to drain
Is glory’s pride and pleasure--
Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
Thou art the hero’s treasure.

MINSTREL.

Now to the warriors of old time,
The strong in fight and glory!
These warriors and their deeds sublime
Are lost in distant story!
The grave hath gather’d up their dust,
Their homes,--the storm hath razed them;
Their helmets are devour’d by rust,
And silent those who praised them:
But in their children live their fires,
We tread the land that bore them,
And see the shadows of our sires
With all their triumphs o’er them.
O come! in all your brightness come,
And smile complacent, near us;
Look from your high and misty home,
Encourage us and hear us.

O Svatoslav! time’s injured son,
Thy path an eagle’s flying:
‘There is no shame in dying--On![2]
There is no shame in dying!’
And Donskoi, thou[3]! courageous man,
Midst heathen foes we find thee;
Destruction leading on thy van,
And nought but death behind thee.

Thou, Peter! thou, the hero’s crown,
‘Poltava!’ is repeated:
Thy foes have thrown their sabres down,
Thee, all the world has greeted.
What! Robbers, would ye build your throne
Upon our cities’ ruin?
Thy horse and rider fell--begone!
For vengeance is pursuing.
Go hide thee in thy native woods,
There thy ambition smother;
Fate drives thee to their solitudes,
Yes! thou, the rebel’s[4] brother.

Who is that white-hair’d hero, who
That northern more than Roman?
His penetrating glance looks through
The phalanx of the foeman:
From yonder clouds what shadowy rows
Are tow’rds his footsteps turning?
The spirits of the Alpine snows
Are wailing loud and mourning.
Franks and Sarmatians, at his view,
Death’s icy paleness borrow;
Well they may fear him--well may rue--
It is the great Suvorov!

Hail! sons of ages long gone by!
Your glories are recorded;
We follow you to victory,
Like you to be rewarded.
We see your ranks--they lead us on--
The foe retreats before us;
We scatter death, as ye have done,
While ye are smiling o’er us.
Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate
We look to our Creator!
‘And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor.’

WARRIORS.

Draw swords, fill glasses, then, elate,
Look to our great Creator!
‘And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor.’

MINSTREL.

This glass then to our country’s joys,
Ne’er may our hearts feel colder;
The scenes of mirth while we were boys,
Of love, when we grew older!
Our country’s plains, our country’s sky,
The streams that flow beneath it;
The memories of infancy,
And all the thoughts that wreath it
With joyous hopes and visions blest--
Dear shrine of our affection,
How glows our heart, how beats our breast,
When beams the recollection.
That is our country, there our home,
There wife and babes attend us;
And oft their prayers towards us roam,
And oft to Heaven commend us!
There dwell our plighted, chosen ones;
How bright their memory flashes!
Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones,
And there our fathers’ ashes.
For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our land’s undying love
In our sons’ breasts awaken!

WARRIORS.

For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our country’s fadeless love
In our sons’ breasts awaken!

MINSTREL.

Now to the Tzar that rules the Russ,
And be his sceptre glorious;
His throne an altar is to us--
We swear to be victorious.
The oath is heard--’tis stamp’d in blood--
’Tis sworn--there’s no returning;
Our swords shall make our promise good,
Our hearts with love are burning.
Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty’s ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne’er among us.

WARRIORS.

Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty’s ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne’er among us.

MINSTREL.

Now to the chiefs that lead us on,
The captains that we cherish;
In life, in death, conjoin’d as one,
And heaven for those who perish:
That heaven where all, all holy is,
All love, and peace, and union,
And courage, dignity, and bliss,
In undisturb’d communion.
This stormy world we look beyond,
To that serene though far-land;
Here danger is our common bond,
And glory is our garland.

There sit the wreath-crown’d chiefs who led
Our fathers long before us;
Their shield of strength shall guard our head,
Their voices thunder o’er us:
On us their wakening smiles descend,
Their frowns our foes pursuing;
Yes! through their ranks what terrors blend,
And threaten them with ruin!
But they shall lead our warriors through,
Amidst the battle’s raging;
Death quits his terrors in our view,
When with the foe engaging.

Hail! martial hero! chief in fight[5],
Thou with the ringlets hoary,
Who, like an eagle, takest thy flight
Midst storm and thunder’s glory.
His furrow’d, weather-beaten brow
Attracts the inquiry curious;
How cold and calm before the foe,
But in his rage how furious!
O wonder! from heaven’s halls there flew
A glorious eagle o’er him[6];
He bow’d his head--what shouts! they knew
That victory was before him.

Fly to our fathers! eagle fly,
And tell them we are speeding
To fame, to glorious victory,
Our hoary chieftain leading.
He, strong in council, cool in fray,
In every purpose steady;
Well known to him is triumph’s way,
His wisdom ever ready.
Were Moskva’s glories razed in vain,
Our country’s trophies riven?
No! Russia stands erect again,
For we are here--and heaven!

Hail! hail, ye martial leaders all!
Jermolov, valiant Roman!
Friend of the brave, and valour’s wall,
And terror of the foeman.
Rajevsky, thou the chief ador’d!
Amidst the strife we found thee
Baring thy bosom to the sword,
With thy young sons around thee.
Hail! Milorádovich! to thee;
The field of battle’s thunder:
Thou tearest, in thy ecstasy,
The tyrant’s chains asunder.

And thou who saved’st Petropolis,
Thou, Vittgenstein! brave leader!
Shield of thy country, and her bliss,
Thou dread of her invader!
With darkness was his vision fill’d,
When first the traitor saw thee;
Alone, but leaning on thy shield,
Numbering his ranks below thee.
Then fear came o’er that traitor’s mind,
His courage left him shatter’d;
Thy sword was drawn--and, like the wind,
His trembling ranks were scatter’d.

Hail! Konovnizin! thou our joy!
From danger absent never:
Where bullets whiz, and arrows fly,
There have we found thee ever.
Before--behind--around him--we
Saw terror, death, and danger:
He stood, in his serenity,
To all alarm a stranger.
Himself forgotten--see him bear
Down on those ranks of slavery;
And valour’s self stood wond’ring there--
He was the god of bravery.

And thou, Platov! thou storm of fight,
Thou Ataman the Lion!
Thy busy lance--thy sling of might,
Scathe--scatter all they fly on.
A wild wolf broken from his lair--
An eagle on stretch’d pinion:--
Death whispering in the foeman’s ear,
Throughout thy wide dominion.
Amidst the woods his torches fly--
How spreads the conflagration!
Bridges oppose--in dust they lie--
Towns--all is desolation!