THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY (continued 2)
Reading edition
As a ship, amidst the angry waves which seek to overwhelm her, sails on triumphantly, and appears to threaten should they dare to impede her course; grey froth foams around her, her track is imprinted in the deep; thus crowds of Tartars rush towards and surround the Russian forces, but in vain; powerless and breathless they fall.
The love of their country nerves the souls and arms of Russia’s sons; eager are all to shed their blood; the raging tumult but inspires them with fresh courage; as the lion, by the fearful glare of his eyes, drives before him whole herds of wolves, their sharp teeth vainly showing; the woods and shores tremble at his roar; with his tail he lashes the sand and dust; with his strength he beats down every opposing force.
Hear I not the deafening din of Ætna’s forges? Roars not the brass within, bubbling with boiling sulphur? Is not Hell striving to burst its chains, and ope its jaws? The posterity of the rejected deity have filled the mountain track with fire, and hurl down flame and liquid metal; but neither foe nor nature can withstand the burning ardour of our people.
Send away thy hordes, Stamboul, beyond these mountains, where the fiery elements vomit forth smoke, ashes, flame and death; beyond the Tigris, whose strong waves drag after them the huge stones from the shores, but the world holds no impediment to arrest the eagle in his flight. To him the waters, the woods, the mountains, the precipices and the silent deserts are but as level paths; wherever the wind can blow, thither he can wing his way.
Let the earth be all motion like the sea; let myriads oppose; let thickest smoke darken the universe; let the Moldavian mountains swim in blood; such cannot harm you, O Russians! whose safety Fate itself has decreed for the sake of the blessed Anna. Already in her course your zeal has led you in triumph against the Tartars, and wide is the prospect before you.
The parting ray of daylight falls gently into the waters, and leaves the fight to the night fires; Murza has fallen on his long shadow; in him the light and soul of the infidels pass from them. A wolf issues from the thick forest and rushes on the pale carcass, even in the Turkish camp. A dying Tartar, raising his eyes towards the evening star for the last time, “Hide,” he feebly cries, “thy purple light, and with it the shame of Mahomet; descend quickly with the sun into the sea.”
Why is my soul thus oppressed with terror? My veins grow stiff, my heart aches. Strange tones meet mine ear; a howling noise seems passing through the desert, the woods and the air. The wild beast has taken refuge in its cavern; the gates of heaven are opened; a cloud has spread itself over the army; suddenly a countenance of fire shines forth: a hero appears chasing his enemies before him, his sword all red with blood.
Is it not he who, near the rapid waters of the Don, destroyed the walls raised to check the Russians’ progress? And the Persians in their arid deserts, was it not by his arms they fell? Thus looked he on his foes when he approached the Gothic shores; thus lifted he his powerful arm; thus swiftly his proud horse galloped over those fields where we see the morning star arise.
Loud thunder rattles around him; the plains and the forests tremble at the approach of Peter, who by his side so sternly looks towards the south, girt round with dreadful thunder! Is it not the conqueror of Kazán? It is he, ye Caspian waters, who humbled the proud Selim, and strewed the desert with the dead bodies of his enemies.
Thus the heroes addressed each other: “Not in vain we toiled; not fruitless our united efforts, that the whole world should stand in awe of Russia. By the aid of our arms, our boundaries have been widened on the north, on the west, and on the east. Anna now triumphs in the south; she has crowned her troops with victory.” The cloud has passed, and the heroes within it: the eye no longer sees, the ear no longer hears them.
The blood of the Tartar has purpled the river; he dares not again venture to the fight; he seeks refuge in the desert; and, forgetful alike of the sword, the camp, his own shame, he pictures to himself his friends weltering in their blood; the waving of the light leaf startles him like whizzing balls as they fly through the air.
The shouts of the victors echo through the woods and valleys; but the wretch who abandons the fight dreads his own shadow. The moon, a witness to her children’s flight, shares in their shame, and, deeply reddening, hides her face in darkness. Fame flies through the gloom of the night; her trumpet proclaims to the universe the terrible might of Russia.
The Danube rushes into the sea, and, roaring in echo to the acclamations of the conquerors, dashes its furious waves against the Turk, who seeks to hide his shame behind its waters. To and fro he runs like a wild beast wounded, and, despairing, he thinks that for the last time he moves his steps; the earth disdains to support the wretch who could not guard her; darkness and fear confuse his path.
Where is now the boasting Stamboul?—thy courage, thy obstinacy in the fight, thy malice against the nations of the North, thy contempt of our strength? No sooner hadst thou commanded thy hordes to advance than thou thoughtest to conquer; cruelly thy janissary vented his rage; like a tiger he rushed upon the Muscovite troop. Soon the boaster fell; he weltered in his own blood.
Water with your tears, children of Hagar, the foot which has trampled you down! Kiss ye that hand whose bloody sword brought fear before your eyes. Anna’s stern glance is quick to grant relief to those who seek it; it shines forth, for the storm has passed away. She sees you prostrate before her; fervent in affection towards her own subjects, to her enemies she proffers punishment or pardon.
Already has the golden finger of the morning star withdrawn the starry curtain of night; a horse fleet as the wind, his rider Phœbus in the full blaze of his glory, issues from the east, his nostrils breathing sparks of radiant light. Phœbus shakes his fiery head, dwells in wonder on the glorious work and exclaims: “Few such victories have I witnessed, long as I have continued to give light to the world, long as the circle of ages has revolved.”
Like as the serpent rolls itself up, hissing and hiding its sting under a rock, when the eagle, soaring into those regions where the winds blow not, above lightnings, snow and tempests, looks down upon the beasts, the fishes and the reptiles beneath him, thus Khotín trembles before the eagle of Russia; thus its inhabitants crouch within its walls.
What led your Tartar race, Kalchák,[135] to bend so promptly beneath the Russian power? to deliver up the keys of your town in token of submission, evading thus disgrace more deep? The clemency of Anna, of her who is ever ready to raise the suppliant. Where flows the Vistula, and where the glorious Rhine, even there her olive-trees have flourished; there have the proud hearts of her defeated foes yielded up their lives.
Joyful are the lands which have thrown off the cruel yoke; the burden the Turks had laid on them is thrown back upon themselves! The barbarian hands which held them in restraint now wear their chains in captivity; and the feet are shackled which trampled down the field of the stranger, and drove away his flocks.
Not thus alone must thou be humbled; not all thy punishment this, O Turkey! A far greater hast thou merited, for thou didst refuse to let us live in peace. Still does the rage of your haughty souls forbid you to bend before Anna? Where would ye hide yourselves from her? Damascus, Cairo, Aleppo, shall flame! Crete shall be surrounded with her fleets; Euphrates shall be dyed with your blood.
A sudden and universal change! A dazzling vision passes before my eyes, and with heaven’s purest beams outshines the brightness of the day! The voices of heroes strike upon my ear. Anna’s joyous band, in glory clad, bear up eternity beyond the starry orbs, and Truth with her golden pen traces her glorious deeds in that book which is not reached by corruption.
Russia thrives like a young lily under Anna’s care; within China’s distant walls she is honoured, and every corner of the earth is filled with her subjects’ glory. Happy art thou, O my country, under the rule of thy Empress! Bright the laurels thou hast gained by this triumph. Fear not the ills of war; they fly from the land where Anna is glorified by her people. Malicious envy may pour forth her poison, she may gnaw her tongue in rage. Our joy heeds it not.
The robbers who, from beyond the Dniester, came to plunder the fields of the Cossacks, are driven back, scattered like dust; no longer dare they venture on that soil where the fruits of the earth and the blessings of peace together flourish. In safety the merchant pursues his traffic, and the mariner sees a boundary to the waves; no obstacles impede his course. The old and the young are happy; he who wished for the hour of death now prays for lengthened life; his heart is gladdened by his country’s triumphs.
The shepherd drives his flocks into the meadow, and enters the forest without fear; there, with his friend who tends his sheep, he sings the song of joy, his theme the bravery of the soldier; he blesses the passing moments of his life, and implores endless peace on the spot where he sleeps in quiet. Thus, in the simple sincerity of his heart, he glorifies her who shields him from his enemies.
O thou great Empress! The love of Russia, the dread of thy foes, the heroine of the northern world, the hope, the joy, the goddess of the shores of seven wide seas, thou shinest in the cloudless lights of goodness and beneficence. Forgive thy slave that he has chosen thy glory for his lay, and that his rugged verse, in token of submission to thy rule, has thus dared to attempt to magnify thy power.—Given in F. R. Grahame’s The Progress of Science, Art and Literature in Russia.
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!” Or, if a mortal’s power could stretch so high— If mortal sight could reach that glorious sun, And look undazzled at its majesty, ’T would seem a fiery ocean burning on From time’s first birth, whose ever-flaming ray Could ne’er extinguished 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 wondrous 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 wondrous 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.
From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets.
EVENING MEDITATIONS ON SEEING THE AURORA BOREALIS
The day retires, the mists of night are spread Slowly o’er nature, darkening as they rise; The gloomy clouds are gathering round our heads, 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, And 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 displayed—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 poured, 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?—Oh, 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 wondrous 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 veiled from thee, presuming clod! And what canst thou conceive of Nature’s God?
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets.
FOOTNOTES:
Alexander Petróvich Sumarókov. (1718-1777.)
Sumarókov is the first litterateur of Russia, that is, the first man to regard literature as a profession, independently of an official position. After graduating from the military school, in 1740, he served for a while under some military commanders, but devoted all his leisure time to writing poetry according to the rules laid down by Tredyakóvski. There was no species of poetical literature in which he did not try himself and did not produce prolifically. He has left odes, eulogies, fables, satires and dramas. In many of these he broke virgin soil in Russia, and in his unexampled conceit he was not slow to proclaim his highest deserts: “What Athens has seen and Paris now sees, after a long period of transition, that you, O Russia, have perceived at once by my efforts.” In spite of his mediocrity and acquaintance with only the pseudo-classic French style (for he disdained all serious study of antiquity), Sumarókov was highly valued in his day, and his example has done much to advance Russian literature. In 1756 the Russian Theatre was created by a decree of the Senate, and Sumarókov was chosen as its first director. To fill his repertoire, he was compelled to write plays himself, and he produced them with astounding facility. His best drama is probably The False Demetrius, though there is little historical truth in it. In 1761 he issued the first independent journal, The Industrious Bee, which, however, was filled mainly with his own writings. Sumarókov’s influence on Russian letters lasted up to the time of Púshkin, though Karamzín was the first to doubt his greatness.
Sumarókov’s The False Demetrius has been translated into English: Demetrius the Impostor; a tragedy [in five acts and in prose], translated from the Russian, London, 1806.
Act II., Scene 7, is also given in C. E. Turner’s Studies in Russian Literature, and, the same, in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.