THE NINETEENTH CENTURY (continued 3)

I write to you! Is more required? Can lower depths beyond remain? ’T is in your power now, if desired, To crush me with a just disdain. But if my lot unfortunate You in the least commiserate You will not all abandon me. At first I clung to secrecy: Believe me, of my present shame You never would have heard the name, If the fond hope I could have fanned At times, if only once a week, To see you by our fireside stand, To listen to the words you speak, Address to you one single phrase And then to meditate for days Of one thing till again we met. ’T is said you are a misanthrope, In country solitude you mope, And we⁠—an unattractive set⁠— Can hearty welcome give alone. Why did you visit our poor place? Forgotten in the village lone, I never should have seen your face And bitter torment never known. The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed down By time (who can anticipate?) I had found my predestinate, Become a faithful wife and e’en A fond and careful mother been. Another! to none other I My heart’s allegiance can resign, My doom has been pronounced on high, ’T is Heaven’s will and I am thine. The sum of my existence gone But promise of our meeting gave, I feel thou wast by God sent down My guardian angel to the grave. Thou didst to me in dreams appear, Unseen thou wast already dear. Thine eye subdued me with strange glance, I heard thy voice’s resonance Long ago. Dream it cannot be! Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew, I flushed up, stupefied I grew, And cried within myself: ’t is he! Is it not truth? in tones suppressed With thee I conversed when I bore Comfort and succour to the poor, And when I prayer to Heaven addressed To ease the anguish of my breast. Nay! even as this instant fled, Was it not thou, O vision bright, That glimmered through the radiant night And gently hovered o’er my head? Was it not thou who thus didst stoop To whisper comfort, love, and hope?⁠— Who art thou? Guardian angel sent Or torturer malevolent? Doubt and uncertainty decide: All this may be an empty dream, Delusions of a mind untried, Providence otherwise may deem⁠— Then be it so! My destiny From henceforth I confide to thee! Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour And thy protection I implore. Imagine! Here alone am I! No one my anguish comprehends, At times my reason almost bends, And silently I here must die⁠— But I await thee: scarce alive, My heart with but one look revive; Or to disturb my dreams approach Alas! with merited reproach. ’T is finished. Horrible to read! With shame I shudder and with dread⁠— But boldly I myself resign: Thine honour is my countersign!

Days passed away; Maria slept Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now⁠— From earth the orphan maid was swept. But who knew when, or where, or how? If prey to grief or pain she fell, If slain or Heaven-struck, who can tell? She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves, And his neglected harem leaves, Flies from its tranquil precincts far, And with his Tartars takes the field, Fierce rushes mid the din of war, And brave the foe that does not yield, For mad despair hath nerved his arm, Though in his heart is grief concealed, With passion’s hopeless transports warm. His blade he swings aloft in air And wildly brandishes, then low It falls, whilst he with pallid stare Gazes, and tears in torrents flow. His harem by the chief deserted, In foreign lands he warring roved, Long nor in wish nor thought reverted To scene once cherished and beloved. His women, to the eunuch’s rage Abandoned, pined and sank in age. The fair Grusinian now no more Yielded her soul to passion’s power, Her fate was with Maria’s blended, On the same night their sorrows ended; Seized by mute guards the hapless fair Into a deep abyss they threw,⁠— If vast her crime, through love’s despair, Her punishment was dreadful too! At length th’ exhausted Khan returned, Enough of waste his sword had dealt, The Russian cot no longer burned, Nor Caucasus his fury felt. In token of Maria’s loss A marble fountain he upreared In spot recluse:⁠—the Christian’s cross Upon the monument appeared (Surmounting it a crescent bright, Emblem of ignorance and night!). Th’ inscription mid the silent waste Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced, Still do the gurgling waters pour Their streams dispensing sadness round, As mothers weep for sons no more, In never-ending sorrows drowned. In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,) Roam where this monument appears, And pitying poor Maria’s fate Entitle it the Fount of Tears!

Remote and dire, in desert-lands Where naught but sunburnt sod is seen, Anchár, the Tree of Poison, stands⁠— A sentinel, with threatening mien. The thirsty steppe-land gave it birth In bitterness and anger dark; It sucked foul venom from the earth, Its roots and leaves are dead and stark. At noon, when fiercest sunlight glows, The poison from its veins escapes, And trickling down the stem it flows By evening into globèd shapes. No bird will seek this Tree of Death, Nor dare the tiger prowl anigh, The hungry whirlwind’s dusty breath Grows baneful as it hastens by. If e’er a wand’ring cloud distil Soft rains upon its blighted top, Their harmless nature turns to ill, And changed, in deadly dews they drop. But yet a man’s imperial nod Sent forth a fellow-man afar, Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod, Right to the base of foul Anchár. By morning he returned, and bore The fatal resin, with a bough Of withered leaves, and like it wore A wasted look⁠—and from his brow Cold sweat was streaming, and he tried To stand, but fell to earth prostrate. And there, poor slave! he sank and died In presence of the Potentate, Who sopped his arrows in the bane, And sent them dark⁠—a doom new-found!⁠— By messenger o’er hill and plain To neighbours in the countries round.

Naught of labour, naught of sorrow, On God’s little bird doth rest, And it questions not the morrow, Builds itself no lasting nest. On the bough it sleeps and swings Till the ruddy sun appears, Then it shakes its wings and sings, When the voice of God it hears. After Spring’s delightful weather, When the burning Summer’s fled, And the Autumn brings together For men’s sorrow, for men’s dread, Mists and storms in gloomy legions; Then the bird across the main Flies to far-off, southern regions, Till the Spring returns again.

By spiritual thirst opprest, I hied me to the desert dim, When lo! upon my path appeared The holy six-winged seraphim. My brow his fingers lightly pressed, Soothing my eyelids into rest: Open my inward vision flies, As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes. He touched my ears, and they were filled With sounds that all my being thrilled. I felt a trembling fill the skies, I heard the sweep of angels’ wings, Beneath the sea saw creeping things, And in the valleys vines arise. Over my lips a while he hung, And tore from me my sinful tongue⁠— The babbling tongue of vanity. The sting of serpent’s subtlety Within my lips, as chilled I stood, He placed, with right hand red with blood. Then with a sword my bosom cut, And forth my quivering heart he drew; A glowing coal of fire he put Within my breast laid bare to view. As corpse-like on the waste I lay, Thus unto me God’s voice did say⁠— “Prophet, arise! Confess My Name; Fulfil my will; submit to Me! Arise! Go forth o’er land and sea, And with high words men’s hearts inflame!”

Where fierce the surge with awful bellow Doth ever lash the rocky wall, And where the moon most brightly mellow Doth beam when mists of evening fall; Where midst his harem’s countless blisses The Moslem spends his vital span, A sorceress there with gentle kisses Presented me a Talisman. And said: “Until thy latest minute Preserve, preserve my Talisman; A secret power it holds within it,⁠— ’T was love, true love the gift did plan. From pest on land or death on ocean When hurricanes its surface fan, O object of my fond devotion! Thou scap’st not by my Talisman. “The gem in eastern mine which slumbers, Or ruddy gold ’t will not bestow; ’T will not subdue the turbanned numbers Before the Prophet’s shrine which bow; Nor high through air on friendly pinions Can bear thee swift to home or clan, From mournful climes or strange dominions, From South to North,⁠—my Talisman. “But oh! when crafty eyes thy reason With sorceries sudden seek to move, And when in night’s mysterious season Lips cling to thine,⁠—but not in love,⁠— From proving then, dear youth, a booty To those who falsely would trepan, From new heart wounds, and lapse from duty, Protect thee shall my Talisman.”

Wise Olég to the war he hath bound him again, The Khozárs have awakened his ire; For rapine and raid, hamlet, city, and plain Are devoted to falchion and fire. In mail of Byzance, girt with many a good spear, The Prince pricks along on his faithful destrere. From the darksome fir-forest, to meet that array, Forth paces a grey-haired magician: To none but Perún did that sorcerer pray, Fulfilling the prophet’s dread mission: His life he had wasted in penance and pain:⁠— And beside that enchanter Olég drew his rein. “Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perún, The good and the ill that ’s before me; Shall I soon give my neighbour-foes triumph, and soon Shall the earth of the grave be piled o’er me? Unfold all the truth; fear me not; and for meed, Choose among them,⁠—I give thee my best battle-steed.” “O enchanters, they care not for prince or for peer, And gifts are but needlessly given; The wise tongue ne’er stumbleth for falsehood or fear, ’T is the friend of the councils of Heaven! The years of the future are clouded and dark, Yet on thy fair forehead thy fate I can mark: “Remember now firmly the words of my tongue; For the chief finds a rapture in glory: On the gate of Byzantium thy buckler is hung, Thy name shall be deathless in story; Wild waves and broad kingdoms thy sceptre obey, And the foe sees with envy so boundless a sway: “And the blue sea, uplifting its treacherous wave, In its wrath,⁠—in the hurricane-hour,⁠— And the knife of the coward, the sword of the brave, To slay thee shall never have power: Within thy strong harness no wound shalt thou know, For a guardian unseen shall defend thee below. “Thy steed fears not labour, nor danger, nor pain, His lord’s lightest accent he heareth, Now still, though the arrows fall round him like rain, Now o’er the red field he careereth; He fears not the winter, he fears not to bleed,⁠— Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!” Olég smiled a moment, but yet on his brow, And lip, thought and sorrow were blended: In silence he bent on his saddle, and slow The Prince from his courser descended; And as though from a friend he were parting with pain, He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane. “Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold! We must part,⁠—such is Destiny’s power: Now rest thee,⁠—I swear, in thy stirrup of gold No foot shall e’er rest, from this hour. Farewell! we ’ve been comrades for many a long year,⁠— My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrere. “The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be: And lead him away to the meadow; On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintilie, He shall drink of the well in the shadow.” Then straightway departed the squires with the steed, And to valiant Olég a fresh courser they lead. Olég and his comrades are feasting, I trow; The mead-cups are merrily clashing: Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snow On the peak of the mountain-top flashing: They talk of old times, of the days of their pride, And the fights where together they struck side by side. “But where,” quoth Olég, “is my good battle-horse? My mettlesome charger,⁠—how fares he? Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course; His age and his freedom how bears he?” They answer and say: on the hill by the stream He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream. Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow: “O man, what can magic avail thee! A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou: Our rage and contempt shall assail thee. My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee!” Then the bones of his charger Olég went to see. Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside; At his bridle Prince Ígor he hurried: And they see on a hillock by Dnieper’s swift tide Where the steed’s noble bones lie unburied: They are washed by the rain, the dust o’er them is cast, And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast. Then the Prince set his foot on the courser’s white skull, Saying: “Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory! Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full: At his funeral feast, red and gory, ’T is not thou ’neath the axe that shall redden the sod, That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood. “And am I to find my destruction in this? My death in a skeleton seeking?” From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss, Crept forth as the hero was speaking: Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring; And the Prince shrieked aloud as he felt the keen sting. The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around,⁠— At Olég’s mighty Death-Feast they ’re ringing; Prince Ígor and Ólga they sit on the mound; The war-men the death-song are singing: And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride, And the fights where together they struck side by side.

Why rave ye, babblers, so⁠—ye lords of popular wonder? Why such anathemas ’gainst Russia do you thunder? What moves your idle rage? Is ’t Poland’s fallen pride? ’T is but Slavonic kin among themselves contending, An ancient household strife, oft judged but still unending, A question which, be sure, ye never can decide. For ages past still have contended These races, though so near allied: And oft ’neath Victory’s storm has bended Now Poland’s, and now Russia’s side. Which shall stand fast in such commotion, The haughty Pole, or faithful Russ? And shall Slavonic streams meet in a Russian ocean⁠— Or that dry up? This is point for us. Peace, peace! your eyes are all unable To read our history’s bloody table; Strange in your sight and dark must be Our springs of household enmity! To you the Kreml and Prága’s tower Are voiceless all,⁠—you mark the fate And daring of the battle-hour,⁠— And understand us not, but hate⁠⸺ What stirs ye? Is it that this nation On Moscow’s flaming wall, blood-slaked and ruin-quenched, Spurned back the insolent dictation Of Him before whose nod ye blenched? Is it that into dust we shattered The Dagon that weighed down the earth so wearily? And our best blood so freely scattered To buy for Europe peace and liberty? Ye ’re bold of tongue⁠—but hard, would ye in deed but try it. Or is the hero, now reclined in laurelled quiet, Too weak to fix once more Izmail’s red bayonet? Or hath the Russian Tsar ever in vain commanded? Or must we meet all Europe banded? Have we forgot to conquer yet? Or rather, shall they not, from Perm to Tauris’ fountains, From the hot Colchian steppes to Finland’s icy mountains, From the grey Kreml’s half-shattered wall, To far Kathay, in dotage buried,⁠— A steely rampart close and serried, Rise, Russia’s warriors, one and all? Then send your numbers without number, Your maddened sons, your goaded slaves, In Russia’s plains there ’s room to slumber, And well they ’ll know their brethren’s graves!

Pímen (writing before a lamp). Once more, one final anecdote, and then My manuscript will be complete, the task On me, a sinner, laid by God, fulfilled. ’T is not for naught that during all these years The Lord hath made me witness many things, And taught me all the art of writing books. When in the future some industrious monk Shall find my hard-accomplished, nameless work, He will, like me, illume his little lamp, And, brushing off the dust of centuries, Will copy down my truthful chronicle. Then will the children of believers true Read all the story of their native land, Recall the labours of their mighty Tsars, Performed for them, for glory and for right, And humbly offer prayers that God will blot The crimes, though dark, of him who wrought for them. Thus, bent for many years I live anew. The past before me rose its hurrying flood. Is ’t long ago that like the angry sea Time’s fateful surges broke in great events? And now it rests in motionless repose! Not many men my memory preserves, Not many words are in my mind engrossed, And all the rest for ever now are gone. But day is nigh, my little lamp burns dim, One more, one final story of the past! (Writes.) Grigóri (wakes). That dream again? How strange! That cursèd dream! Thrice have I dreamed it! But the aged man Still sits before his little lamp and writes. He hath not closed his eyes the livelong night In slumber: how I love his peaceful mien, As, deeply buried in the past, his soul Broods o’er the secret of his manuscript. How gladly would I scan his precious line. What writeth he: the Tatars’ bloody reign,⁠— The cruel deeds of John the Terrible? The stormy council of old Nóvgorod? The glories of the fatherland? In vain! Nor in his glance nor in his lofty brow Can one discern the secrets of his mind: His mien is calm and full of majesty, As well becomes an aged priest who looks With cloudless eye on good and evil men Impartially, detecting right and wrong Or hatred or compassion knowing not. Pímen. Art thou awake? Grigóri.art thou awake? Thy blessing, honoured sire. Pímen. The Lord His blessing grant thee, oh, my son, To-day, hereafter, and for evermore! Grigóri. Long has thy pen been busy, nor has sleep Once brought thee sweet oblivion this night; But some strange, diabolic vision hath disturbed My rest: my enemy hath tormented me. I dreamed that up the winding narrow stairs I mounted to the windy tower alone; Before me from the top all Moscow lay Diminished like an ant-hill. Far below The people swarmed and babbled in the square And jeered at me with senseless ridicule. Shame mastered me and terror overwhelmed, And, falling headlong on my face, I waked. ’T is thrice that I have dreamed the selfsame dream. Is ’t not a marvel? Pímen.a marvel?’T is thy youthful blood Makes sport of thee: by prayer and strenuous fast Thy dreams will be with peaceful visions filled. ’T is e’en not otherwise with me when I, Dazed with involuntary drowsiness, E’er fail my soul with earnest prayer to guard⁠— My aged dreams are then disturbed with sin: While scenes of banqueting torment me oft, Now warlike camps or surging battles rude, Now senseless dissipations of wild youth. Grigóri. How gaily must have passed thy youthful days! Thou wast in battle ’neath Kazán’s high walls; Hast shared the wars in Lithuania’s plains; Hast seen the wanton court of John the Great. How fortunate! But I from earliest years Have been immured in cells a needy monk! Why should not I have had delight in war And feasted at the table of the Tsar? Then, when I reached like thee the term of life, I might have turned me gladly from the world And all its vanities, and shut myself Within the calm retirement of a cell To meditate upon my holy vows. Pímen. Lament not, brother, that thou hast so soon The world abandoned, that a loving God Hath little of temptation sent to thee. Take thou my word, a fascination strong Is exercised upon us from afar, By glory, luxury, and woman’s wiles. Long have I lived and much have I enjoyed; But only true enjoyment have I known Since to the cloister God hath led my steps. Recall the mightiest Tsars that have ever lived. Who stands above them? God alone! And who Would venture to oppose them? None! What then? On them so sorely weighs the golden crown They would exchange it gladly for the cowl. E’en John the Tsar sought comfort and relief Within the semblance of monastic rule. His court, where swarmed his haughty favourites, The novel aspect of a cloister took; His body-guard, in sackcloth and in stole, Appeared like docile monks, the while the Tsar, Himself, the cruel Tsar, an abbot mild. Myself have seen, here in this very cell⁠— (’T was then the abode of that most just of men, Kiríll, who suffered much, and even then I also had been led by God to see The folly of the world)⁠—myself have seen, Here in this very cell, the mighty Tsar, Grown weary of his mad designs and wrath, Repenting, sit amongst us, meek and mild. We stood before him silent, motionless, And quietly he would converse with us, Would hold the abbot and the brotherhood: “Ye fathers, soon the wished-for hour will come, When I ’ll appear with hunger to be saved; Thou Nikodím, thou Sérgi, thou Kiríll, And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow! I ’ll come to you a sinner in despair; I ’ll take upon myself the monk’s harsh garb, I ’ll fall, O holy father, at thy feet!” Thus spoke the mighty ruler of the realm; And gentle words flowed from his cruel lips, And tears bedewed his cheeks; and we in tears Would pray our Lord his sinful, suffering soul To fill with everlasting love and peace. But his son Feódor? Upon the throne Vowed to perpetual silence, like a monk; He sighed to lead a life of easy peace. He straightway changed the royal palace-halls To cloistered cells, the heavy cares of state Did not at all disturb his saintly soul. God mercifully gave the Tsar his peace; And while he lived, our Russia, undisturbed In taintless glory, owned his gentle sway. But when he died, a miracle was wrought, Unheard of: at his couch appeared a man With face of flame, seen by the Tsar alone. Feódor talked with him, and called him “Sire,”⁠— “Great Patriarch.” All around were filled with fear To see the heavenly apparition there, Because the holy father was not then Within the chamber where the Tsar was laid. When he appeared sweet fragrance filled the halls, And like the sun his holy visage shone.

Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying, Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light On the drifting snow is lying,⁠— Wild the heavens, wild the night. Swiftly o’er the stormswept lowland⁠— Jingle, jingle bells amain! Swiftly still, though heavy-hearted, Drive I o’er the frozen main. “Ho there! driver, onward!” “Faster, Good my lord, we may not go, For the stormwind blinds me, master, And the road is choked with snow.” Useless all! the track is hidden; We are lost to help and home; From afar the demon spies us⁠— Closer circling see him come! Ha! beside us he ’s careering, Hissing, spitting,⁠—now, I ween, Round the steeds so madly veering On the brink of yon ravine. There⁠—if near or far I know not⁠— He was whirling in my sight. There again he pined and dwindled, Vanished into empty night! Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying, Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light On the drifting snow is lying,⁠— Wild the heavens, wild the night. Courage fails to struggle longer, Suddenly the sleigh bells cease⁠— Pause the team⁠—Declare thou yonder⁠— Wolf or tree-stem⁠—is it peace? Hark, the wind is wailing sadly, Loudly snort the startled team. There, see there he gambols madly, Through the murk his eyeballs gleam. Once again the team has started⁠— Jingle, jingle bells amain! Lo, the spirit-hosts assemble O’er the faintly gleaming plain! Form they have not, have no number, Lightly whirling round, they seem Like the dead leaves of November In the moon’s uncertain beam. Are they endless? whither fly they? Why this wailful chanting, say! Mourn they now their dead? In marriage Give they, else, some witch away? Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying, Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light On the drifting snow is lying,⁠— Wild the heavens, wild the night. Still they come and still they vanish In the darkness o’er the plain, Still their moaning and imploring Rends my very heart in twain!

Cruel is our lonely ocean, Roaring always day and night; Buried ’neath its wild commotion Many a wreck lies, far from sight. Courage, comrades! I, confiding, To the free winds give my barque; Forth it hastens, swiftly riding O’er the billows grim and dark. Thick the clouds fly o’er the heaven, Fierce the gale grows,⁠—black the waves; Hither, thither we are driven, While the waking whirlwind raves. Courage, comrades! Peals the thunder, High the watery heaps arise, Yawning gulfs now draw us under, Now we ’re lifted to the skies. Yet behold, our ship is nearing Through the storm the wished-for land; See, the vaults of heaven are clearing, See, the port is near at hand. Thither but brave hearts and ready Will the billows speed along! Courage, comrades! straight and steady Flies our vessel, stanch and strong.

I A sombre fiend, a spirit banished, Was flying o’er this world of sin; While thoughts of better days, now vanished, Upon his brain were crowding in⁠— Those days, when in the home of light Midst cherubim he too was bright. The time was when the comet fleeting, Its soft caressing smile of greeting To interchange with him was proud; When, through the never-ending cloud, He followed curiously the trace Of where the caravans had moved Of stars, whose paths were lost in space,⁠— When he believed and when he loved. A happy first-born of creation, He knew no thought of fear or doubt: Existence then was his, without The weight of ages of damnation⁠⸺ And much and much,⁠—but no, not all, Had he the strength that dared recall. II Through earthly deserts long he sped, Without a refuge or an aim. The ages after ages fled; Like minute after minute, came Recurring ceaselessly the same. In this mean world o’er which he lorded No ill he sowed, relief afforded; For nowhere he resistance met That stood against the snares he set. Sin did but weariness beget. III Now, o’er the Caucasus, on high, Was Eden’s outcast flying by. Kazbék, beneath, with diamond light Of everlasting snow shines blinding; And deep below, a streak of night, Like some dark cleft, the snake’s delight, In endless curves the Daryál’s winding And Térek like a lion springing, With bristling mane, in fury roars; The beast of prey, the bird, high winding Its flight in azure where it soars, Have heard the cry his waves give forth, And little golden clouds there are From southern lands,⁠—ay, from afar, To follow on the journey north. The cliffs in serried masses seem, Replete with some mysterious dream, To bend their heads above the stream, And watch his waters as they gleam Perched on the rock, the castle tower, That stands on Caucasus to wait, A giant guardian at the gate, Seems sternly through the mist to glower, And wild and wonderful about Was all God’s world; but that proud sprite With but a glance of scorn looked out On all his God had wrought in might; His lofty brow did naught express Except the void of nothingness. IV Before him now another scene Had living beauties to display, Where Georgian valleys robed in green, Stretched outward like a carpet, lay. One of earth’s happy fertile nooks Where column-like the ruins stand; O’er stones of every hue, the brooks Run downward babbling through the land. The nightingales among the roses Sing tuneful love in accents fond To graceful mates that ne’er respond; The plane-tree’s spreading shade discloses The spot where ivy thick reposes; Here gorges where from burning day The timid deer lie hid away; And light, and life, and leaves that rustle, And voices’ hundred-sounding bustle, And plants whose thousand breaths compete, And fierce voluptuous noonday heat; And nights whose aromatic dew Distils a freshness ever new; And stars that are as bright as eyes, As glances of the Georgian maid. But nature in all charm arrayed To no new throb of life gave rise Within that outlaw’s sterile breast, Save for a hostile, cold unrest; And that which here he contemplated, He looked with scorn upon and hated.

Once, before a tribal meeting Of the mountain throng, Kazbék-hill with Shat-the-mountain Wrangled loud and long. “Have a care, Kazbék, my brother,” Shat, the grey-haired, spoke; “Not for naught hath human cunning Bent thee to the yoke. Man will build his smoky cabins On thy hillside steep; Up thy valley’s deep recesses Ringing axe will creep; Iron pick will tear a pathway To thy stony heart, Delving yellow gold and copper For the human mart. Caravans, e’en now, are wending O’er thy stately heights, Where the mists and kingly eagles Wheeled alone their flights. Men are crafty; what though trying Proved the first ascent!⁠— Many-peopled, mark, and mighty Is the Orient.” “Nay, I do not dread the Orient,” Kazbék, answering, jeers; “There mankind has spent in slumber Just nine hundred years. Look, where ’neath the shade of plane-trees Sleepy Georgians gape, Spilling o’er their broidered clothing Foam of luscious grape! See, ’mid wreaths of pipe-smoke, lying On his flowered divan, By the sparkling pearly fountain Dozeth Teheran! Lo! around Jerusalem’s city, Burned by God’s command Motionless, in voiceless stillness, Deathlike, lies the land. “Farther off, to shade a stranger, Yellow Nilus laves, Glowing in the glare of noonday, Steps of royal graves. Bedouins forget their sorties For brocaded tents, While they count the stars and sing of Ancestral events. All that there the vision greeteth Sleeps in prized repose; No! the East will ne’er subdue me! Feeble are such foes!” “Do not boast thyself so early,” Answered ancient Shat; “In the North, look! ’mid the vapours, Something rises! What?” Secretly the mighty Kazbék At this warning shook, And, in trouble, towards the nor’ward Cast a hurried look. As he looks in perturbation, Filled with anxious care, He beholds a strange commotion, Hears a tumult there. Lo! from Ural to the Danube, To the mighty stream, Tossing, sparkling in the sunlight, Moving regiments gleam; Glancing wave the white-plumed helmets Like the prairie grass, While, ’mid clouds of dust careering, Flashing Uhlans pass. Crowded close in serried phalanx War battalions come; In the van they bear the standards, Thunders loud the drum; Streaming forth like molten copper Batteries, rumbling, bound; Smoking just before the battle Torches flare around; Skilled in toils of stormy warfare, Heading the advance, See! a grey-haired general guides them, Threat’ning in his glance. Onwards move the mighty regiments With a torrent’s roar; Terrible, like gathering storm-clouds, East, due east, they pour. Then, oppressed with dire forebodings, Filled with gloomy dreams, Strove Kazbék to count the foemen, Failed to count their streams. Glancing on his tribal mountains, Sadly gloomed the hill; Drew across his brows the mistcap, And for aye was still.

Alone I wander out along the road; The stony way gleams through the mist afar; The night is calm; the waste lists to its God; And star is speaking unto star. In heaven wondrousness and grandeur reign; The earth sleeps in a glow of soft blue sky. Then why do I feel such distress, such pain? What have I to await? or what regret have I? Already I await no more from life; And nothing in the past do I regret. I seek for freedom, and an end to strife; I only wish to sleep and to forget. But not as in the tomb’s too chilly rest, My slumber through the ages I conceive With all Life’s vigour throbbing in my breast⁠— That with my breathing it should gently heave,⁠— That all the day and night, to soothe my ear, A tender voice to me of love should sing; And I must have, in green for ever near, A dark oak bending o’er me, murmuring.

A solitary sail is gleaming, While, through the haze of th’ azure, she, In chase of chance’s fortune seeming, Far from a cherished home may be. The waves leap up,⁠—the wind is blowing, The mast is bending low and creaks,⁠— Alas! from happiness not going, It is not happiness she seeks. Beneath her prow blue floods are swelling, Above her glides the sunlit fleece, But still she prays for storms, rebelling⁠— As if in storms there can be peace.

In life’s hard, trying moments, With sorrow in my breast, I breathe a prayer most wonderful, Which ever brings me rest. There is a power of blessedness In those sweet words enshrined, Thought cannot grasp their sacred charm That calms the anxious mind. Doubt stays no more, the soul is free, Her burden rolls away, Her faith renewed, tears bring relief, When this sweet prayer I pray.

Branch of Palestine, the story Of thy birth and beauty, say Of what hill and vale the glory Were thy leaves and blossoms gay? Thee, by Jordan’s limpid fountains, Did the Eastern sunbeam bless? Thee, on Lebanon’s great mountains, Did the night-wind’s love caress? Salem’s sons, with sorrow smitten, As they twined thy leaves with care⁠— Sang they songs, in old times written? Breathed they then a gentle prayer? Is thy parent-palm yet living Where the summer sun beats down, Still to desert-travellers giving Shade beneath her broad-leafed crown? Or, thy faded palm-tree sighing, Withered at thy parting, grieves, While the thirsty dust is lying Thickly on her yellow leaves? Whose the reverent hand that bore thee From thy country to this place? Wept he often, bending o’er thee? Have those hot tears left their trace? Was he of God’s host the flower, Shone his cheek with rapture bright, Worthy heaven, like thee, each hour In his God’s and comrades’ sight? Branch from Salem, guard unsleeping Of the golden ikon fair, Watch before the holiest keeping, Thou art weighed with silent care! Beauteous twilight, lamp-beams o’er thee; Full of peace and comfort, shine; Ark and cross repose before thee, Symbols of a love divine!

Remember’st thou the day when we⁠— Late was the hour⁠—were forced to part? The night-gun boomed athwart the sea; In painful silence beat each heart; The lovely day found cloudy close; A heavy mist the landscape palled; And seemed it, when that shot arose, An echo from the ocean called. Alone I wander by the flood; And when a gun booms in its might, I think in pain how we once stood Together on that parting night. And as the mournful echoes roll, Muffled, along the fluid walls, From out the caverns of my soul Death answeringly calls and calls.

How oft, surrounded by the motley crowd, Mid whirling dance, and din of music loud, I sink my senses in a dream,⁠— When phrased convention, polished fiction, fly And all the men and women pass me by,⁠— Like masks their faces seem. When my cold hands are met with colder still, And callous city beauties touch me chill, Bold but effete, with hollow cheer, Then, to appearance wrapped in light and glare, I cherish in my heart a fancy fair,⁠— Echoes a bygone year. Forsaking all around, in heart and mind I fly⁠—a free, free bird⁠—to things behind, And see myself a child once more, In places old and dear. The house o’erhead,⁠— The garden path I see,⁠—the ruined shed,⁠— The pond well-weeded o’er: And see across the pond the village lie, From clustered roof the smoke is rising high, The mists from meadows far away! I enter a dark alley: evening red Blinks through the shrubs, and underneath my tread The dead leaves rustling stray. Then a strange longing holds me,⁠—yearning sore For love,⁠—my fancy’s love and nothing more:⁠— She was a dream and yet my love! Her sky-blue eyes could flash with silver flame, Her rosy smile with kindling sweetness came, Like sunrise through the grove. Thus, potent master of my fairyland, Alone I pass my hours, and understand The spell of those sweet days to save, Unharmed, unstained by passion or by doubt, Like some fair flowery islet, lying out Where leaps the wild sea wave. But suddenly a jar renews my sense,⁠— The happy, happy dream is frighted hence, That gentle, uninvited guest. And wild I long my steel-cold lines to fling Upon the startled crowd, to smite and sting, With anger from my breast.

’Neath midday heat, in Dagestána’s Vale, With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay; From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale, And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away. Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes; The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep; The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops, And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep. A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers An evening feast in my home,⁠—far away,⁠— Where young and lovely women, crowned with flowers, Conversed of me in accents light and gay. But, in their happy talk not joining, one Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed; And oh! the mystery knows God alone,⁠— This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed. She saw in vision Dagestána’s Vale, Where on the slope a well-known body lay; From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale, And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away.

Her whom I loved in early years So well, so tenderly,⁠—who filled With a first passion’s hopes and fears A heart which time has not yet stilled,⁠— Can I forget her? Day by day I strive Her well-loved image from my mind to drive; To find new dreams my old dreams to efface, And let another love my early love replace. But all in vain. I strive and strive, and yet Whate’er I do I never can forget. When in the silent hours of night I sleep, She comes in dreams; once more I see her stand Beside my couch; once more her accents steep My suffering soul in bliss; once more her hand In mine so gently, mournfully, she lays, While her dark eyes on mine in sadness gaze. Speed, kindly Time, my thoughts from her to sever, Or set me free with her to live for ever.

I With a rosy flame the dawn burns on high, but the fog still broods over the face of the earth; Till the day has caught the fire of the sun, and rolled up the mists higher than the tops of the hills, And has pressed them into a black cloud. The black cloud has begun to knit its brows,⁠— Has begun to knit its brows, as if reflecting, as though musing upon the place of its birth, As though remembering how the wild winds will drive it before them across the face of the wide world. Then it arms itself with the hurricane and the thunderbolt, with the lightning’s flash and the bow of the cloud. It has taken up arms, and flown abroad, and struck its stroke, and poured itself forth In a torrent of tears, in a flood of rain, over the copious bosom of the earth. II Now from heaven’s heights the dear sun looks down. The earth a plenteous draught has drunk. On their corn-fields and gardens, and meadows green, the rustic folk cannot gaze enough. For the grace of God these rustic folk have waited long with trembling and prayer. Together with the spring there have come to life the secret thoughts of their quiet minds. Thought the first: To pour into sacks the grain in the bins, and to set their carts in order. Thought the second: Forth from the village by night to drive their line of carts. Thought the third⁠⸺When of this they thought, to God the Lord arose the prayers. With early dawn have they gone afield. There in handfuls heaped each scatters the grain, furrows the soil with the ploughshare’s blade, or rips it across with the harrow’s tooth. III I will go and gaze with gladdened eye at what God has sent to men for their toil. Above my waist the large-grained rye rises, then dreamily bends well nigh to the ground. On every side the corn, guest sent by God, greets with a smile the joyful day. Over it the breeze floats lustrously, streaming this way and that a wave of gold. Now in whole families the peasants commence their harvest, cutting close to the roots the stalks of the lofty rye. Into close-packed mows are the sheaves collected; from the lines of carts sounds music all the night long. On every side do the stacks erect their heads in the barnyards,⁠—taking up much room, like nobles of yore in their robes of state. IV The dear sun sees that the harvest is done; so colder gleam his last autumnal rays. But with warm light glows the peasant’s taper⁠—burning before the pictured form of the Mother of God.

What does the silent wood Dream of so pensively? What is the sorrow that Rides in its mystery? Why dost thou, Knightly One, Under its charm’s spell, Head undefended Hold ’gainst the wind-stroke,⁠— Standing there shamedly Letting the storm-clouds As they pass momently Burst on thee savagely? Thy helmet of green leaves Bound fastly together Is whirled from thee far off And scattered to dust; Thy boughs, as a mantle falls, Lie all around thee; Thou standest ashamedly, Forced to submit thee. Where hath vanished now Speech that was mighty, Strength that was prouder than All a king’s bravery? A night there hath been for thee, A calm night within which Thou heardest the nightingale’s Deluge of song⁠— A day there hath been for thee Triumphant, forgetless⁠— A friend and an enemy Sought thy cool freshness; ’T was late in the evening, And loud blew the storm-blast Of him that was speaking Unto thy detractor. His wrath drove the clouds off That round thee had gathered, His love clung around thee Like wind-gusts, but warmer. Thou said’st to the other, With voice that changed loudly, “Go, fall back beyond me! Go, leave me in peace!” That voice of his dizzied, As tone on tone sounded; Thy very depths trembled, Their stoutest trunks reeling. Then, startled from silence, To life thou awakest; A whistling of tempest Re-echoed throughout thee; ’T is the cry of the wood-sprite, A witch’s note shrilling, Until the loud rumble Is borne away seaward. Where now all thy glory Of verdure and leaf? Thou ’st put on dark clothing Of rain-mist and grief; Wild art thou and silent, But, when the wind quickens, Thy plaint sadly peals out For him lost untimely. And so, thou dark forest, Life-long hast thou harassed The Knightly, the Noble, To combat for thee. Against thee prevailed not Those stronger than thou art; Life’s autumn in him, though, Seemed cruelly short. The woods know in dreamland That forces of evil Their malice did spend on Who least had deserved it: From off Knightly shoulders A head had been struck⁠— Not by a hero’s hand, But by a recreant.

Warm the summer sun in heaven, But for me no heat is given! Frozen is the very heart’s blood, Through the bride that played me false. Grief’s black pall hath fallen o’er me, On my sorrow-bowed-down head: Mortal anguish tears my soul, and From this body would it break. Neighbours asked have I to help me; No man gave me aught but laughter; Then, to the grave of either parent⁠— Neither heard the voice I called with. Light then changed for me to darkness, Senseless on the ground I lay, Dull the night, until a tempest Roused me from the tombstone cold. Raged the storm⁠—a horse I saddled, Bent on riding⁠—God knows where⁠— Life is heartless toil to laugh at, Man’s fate evil alone to share.

I can’t understand it, I can’t make it out⁠— Yet why I can’t see How it all came about? In an unlucky day, In an ill hour, alack, I came into this world With no shirt to my back! Yet my grand-dad’s broad shoulders Are mine, as you see; And my mother’s deep chest; In my cheeks flowing free Burns the blood of my sire, Like milk set afire By dawn’s crimson light; And my locks lie in clusters As black as the night. Yet, whatever I do⁠— Oh, it never goes right! In an unlucky day, In an ill hour, alack, I came into this world With no shirt to my back! There’s darling Grunyúsha, The Stárosta’s daughter⁠— Well, all through the spring Did I patiently court her; But he, the old churl, Was finely put out! To whom has he planned That he ’ll marry the girl? Oh, I can’t understand How it all came about. Does he think, the old ass, I was after his money? Let him stick to his brass If he give me my honey⁠— ’T is for her that I pine. Oh, her face is bright And as rosy as sunrise, Her rounded cheeks mellow, And the flash of her eyes Might drive a young fellow Clean out of his wits. Ah, ’t was only last night That she wept so for me, But her tears were in vain. For her dad said downright That it never could be. Shall I never again From my sorrow be free? Come, I ’ll buy a new scythe, And I ’ll sharpen it well, Aye, its edge I will whet, Ere I bid a farewell To my own native place. Nay, Grúnya, don’t fret, Don’t worry, dear maid. Though keen is the blade, I ’ll not cut myself down; Good-bye, little town. You, hard parent, good-bye! To a land far away Will the young mower hie. Down the Don’s bank I ’ll stray Till I reach the quayside, Where the suburbs stand gay And the Steppe stretches wide. There, wherever I glance, The tall plume-grass is blown. O Steppe, thou, my own, How thy fertile expanse Lies green on each hand, So free and so vast, Till it reaches at last To the Black Sea’s far strand! I have come as thy guest, But I come not alone, I have brought thee a friend, One, my closest and best. See, my sharp scythe is here, As myself he is dear. Oh, from end to far end, What a joy it will be To wander with him O’er the Steppe’s grassy sea! Swish, work away shoulders; Swing arms to and fro, While cool on my face The light southern winds blow, Refreshing and rippling The Steppe’s endless space. Now, scythe, hum a song, Flash in circles thy blade; How the long grass-ranks fall As the steel moves along! O ye poor blossoms all, Your heads are low-laid! Ye must dry up and fade In the straight swathes of grass As my young heart, alas, Withers up for a maid,⁠— And I languish for Grúnya! I ’ll rake up the hay Till so high my stack stands That the wife of the Cossack Must pay with both hands. I shall sew up my pocket, My treasure to guard, Then, home I ’ll betake me, To the Stárosta say: “Though tears could not make thee Give Grúnya away, Thou art not so hard But my good pieces may.”