FROM LERMONTOF.

Thro’ the midnight heavens an angel flew, And a soft low song sang he, And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds Heard that holy melody. He sang of the bliss of sinless souls ’Neath the tents of Eden-bowers; Of God—the Great One—he sang; and unfeigned Was his praise of the Godhead’s powers. A little babe in his arms he bore, For this world of woe and tears, And the sound of his song in the soul of the child Kept ringing, though wordless, for years. And long languished she on this earth below, With a wondrous longing filled, But the world’s harsh songs could not change for her The notes which that angel trilled.

Glitters a white, a lonely sail, Where stoops the grey mist o’er the sea. What does his distant search avail? At home, unfound, what leaveth he? Whistles the wind; the waves at play Sport round the bending, creaking mast; Ah! not for Fortune does he stray, Nor yet from Fortune flees he fast. ’Neath him, like sapphire, gleams the sea; O’er him, like gold, the sunlight glows; But storms, rebellious, wooeth he, As if in storms he’d find repose.

In moments of life’s trial, When sorrows crowd the soul, A single prayer of wondrous power From fervent lips I roll. There dwells a force God-given In harmony of sound; In living words there breathes a charm All holy and profound. From soul, like burden, leaping, Far off all doubting flies; From prayers of faith with weeping How light, how light we rise!

For all, for all, I render thanks to Thee— For passion’s secret pangs and misery, For burning tears, the poison of the kiss, For warmth of soul wasted on emptiness, For foeman’s hate, for friends’ malicious spleen, For all by which in life I’ve cheated been. But oh! dispose it so, that from this day I may not long have need such thanks to pay.

Silent the sounds of wondrous songs; Their latest notes have pealed; Narrow and dim his resting-place, The singer’s lips are sealed.

’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.

Cloudlets ethereal wandering ceaselessly, Floating in pearly chains over the azure deep; Maybe, as even I, suffering banishment,[2] Leaving your own dear North, southward perforce you sweep. What is compelling you? Destiny’s ordinance? Envy invisible? Open iniquity? Maybe deeds criminal heavily press on you; Maybe the slander of friendship’s obliquity. No! you are simply aweary of fruitless fields; Strangers to passions and strangers to punishment. Frigid eternally, free everlastingly, You have no country, and cannot know banishment!

Praying now earnestly, Mother of God, come I, Bending before thy shrine radiant in brilliancy, Not for salvation, or battle-eve benison, Not with thanksgiving, or even repentancy. Not for my own sad soul lost in the wilderness, Soul of a pilgrim here wandering homelessly; But for a maiden pure, whom I would trust to thee, Fervid Protectress from cold inhumanity! Circle with Fortune this maiden deserving it; Grant her considerate friends on life’s pilgrimage, Youth of bright buoyancy, age of reposefulness; Grant to her sinless soul Hope’s happy peacefulness. Then—when the farewell hour finally draweth nigh,— Whether in morn’s hum, or silence of eventide,— Send forth the best of thine angels to take to thy Bosom of mercy her peerlessly perfect soul!

How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s pain In moments of sorrow of soul! Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain? And o’er us the best years roll. To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space; And for ever Love cannot remain. Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace, And all gladness and sorrow are vain. The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweet Will vanish at reason’s behest; And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete— Is a stupid and frivolous jest.

Alone I pass along the lonely road, Thro’ gathering mist the pebbly pathway gleams; The night is still;—the void remembers God, And star vibrates to star with speaking beams. A wondrous glory moves across the sky; Soft sleeps the earth in dove-grey azure light. Why aches my heart? Why troubled thus am I? What wait I for, what grieve I for, this night? No more from life can I expect to gain, And for the “has been” it were vain to weep; I simply seek repose, release from pain, And fain would rest, forgetting all, in sleep. But not the sleep which the cold tomb implies; But rather would I rest for ages so That in my breast the strength of life might rise In gentle wavelets, heaving to and fro. The while that in my ears by night and day, A sweet voice sang of ceaseless love to me; And o’er me leaned, greening in every spray And faintly whispering, my dark cedar[3] tree.

One wave upon another leaps, And splashes, murmuring loud; So men on men, in rolling heaps, Press on—a worthless crowd. The waves prefer their cold free-will To warmth the noonday gave; Souls men desire to have, yet still They’re colder than the wave.

The young Prince is swimming his steed in the sea; He heareth a voice: “Oh, Prince, look upon me!” Loud snorteth the steed as he pricks up his ears; He splashes the foam as he plunges and rears. Again hears the Prince: “A king’s daughter I be; Art thou willing to pass the whole evening with me?” Behold, from the water a white hand extends, And catches the reins by their silk tassel-ends. To the white hand a young face there quickly succeeds; In her locks are entangled the twisted seaweeds. Her blue eyes are gleaming with love’s wild delight; On her bosom the foam-drops like pearls sparkle bright. Then thinketh the Prince, “You must stay, lady fair;” And adroitly he windeth his hand in her hair. He has caught her. The hand of the warrior’s strong; She weeps and she prays as they struggle along. The Prince to the shore swimmeth on in his pride; He lands, and loud calls he his friends to his side. “Ho! come, my brave comrades, and look at my prey. Behold how she struggles! She’ll ne’er get away. “Why stand ye a terrified group on the shore? Ye have ne’er seen a beauty like this one before.” Back glanceth the Prince, with delight, on his prize; But the proud look of triumph soon fades from his eyes. With a shudder he sees on the golden sand trail A fearsome sea-monster, with hideous green tail— A tail covered over with scales like a snake, Its quivering coils in death-agony shake. The foam from her forehead is pouring in streams, And the darkness of death from her closing eye gleams; Her pale hands are clutching the sands of the sea, And of purport unknown a reproach whispers she. Afar rides the Prince—deep in thought rideth he; For long years he’ll remember “the Queen of the Sea.”

Since the Eternal Judge to me The Prophets’ power of vision lent, In human eyes I read, and see Pages of vice and folly blent. To preach of love when I began, Teaching of truth and purity, My neighbours all, like devils, ran And took up stones to throw at me. Upon my head I ashes cast, And from the towns, a beggar, fled; And now I dwell in deserts vast, Just like the birds, by God’s hand fed. Keeping the laws of Providence, The brute creation serveth me; The stars hear me with confidence, With bright rays playing joyously. When through the noisy city’s way I hurry onwards, in distraction, The old men to the children say, With smile of selfish satisfaction— “Behold, from him a warning take! He was too proud with us to dwell; The fool! That God through his lips spake— This was the tale he strove to tell. “Look, children! on him cast your eyes! How sad he is! how thin and pallid! How naked, and how poor and squalid! How all the wretched man despise!”

When waves of shadow fret the yellowing fields; When freshly hum the woods to Zephyr’s play; When on the garden walls the reddening plums, Hiding themselves, in leafy ambush sway; When freshly washed in heavy-scented dews (While evening red or golden morning glows), From ’neath the hedge to me, with welcoming bows, Her silver head the waving lily shows; When sports the snow-cold runlet down the dale, Plunging my restless thoughts in pensive dreams, Whispering to me some deep mysterious tale Of that reposeful source from whence it streams;— Then in my soul calm peace succeeds alarm, Upon my brow dissolves the furrowed frown; On earth I catch of happiness the charm; From heaven I see the Godhead looking down.

I love my land, but with a love so strange That reason over it no victory knows. Her glory, bought in bloodshed’s stern exchange, Her ever-confident and proud repose, The sacred annals of her ancient might, Arouse in me no fancies of delight. Nay! but I love (the why I cannot say) Her cold steppes in their silent majesty, Her waving woodlands in their boundless play, Her flooded rivers spreading like the sea. I love to drive adown her country lanes, With longing glance piercing the shades of night, Sighing for rest, to catch thro’ distant panes The glimmering of some mournful village light. I love to see the smoke of smouldering stalk; To watch the waggons o’er the wide waste wend; Or, on hillside, ’mid yellowing fields, to mark The pair of birch trees their white arms extend. With a delight, unknown except to few, Love I to note the well-filled threshing-floor, The peasant’s hut, half hidden in the straw, The shutters with quaint carvings covered o’er; And with no less delight, on holiday, From dewy eve till noon of night, to gaze Upon the dance, with stamp and whistling gay, Amid the roar the merry rustics raise.

We stand apart, yet still thy pictured face I fondly press to this sad heart of mine— A vision pale, of happiest years a trace, My soul rejoices in this gift of thine. For, though to passions new I’m now resigned, That once-loved face I cannot cease to love; The shrine forsaken still retains the shrined; O’erthrown the image, yet God reigns above.

Well do I love thee, my dagger of steel, My comrade so bright and so cold! Thou wast forged in hate by a Georgian fell, For the fierce fight edged by Circassian bold. Thee to me as a gift did a lily hand bear In the moment of sad farewell; For that once no blood, but a glittering tear, A pearl of passion, adown thee fell. Fixed upon mine, her dark black eyes Full of mysterious sorrow seemed; As plays thy blade when flickering flames arise, Darkling they gloomed, and then they brightly gleamed. Dumb pledge of love to cheer my cheerless way, To wanderer lone a useful guide, My strength of soul I never shall betray, But true like thee, true steel, will I abide!

No! not for thee flames thus my love’s hot blast; Thy brilliant beauty is not thine for me. In thee I love a passion of the past; My long-lost youth I live again in thee. For when at times entranced I gaze upon thee, Fixing on thy bright eyes a yearning glance, To thee my heart is silent, while beyond thee With her I hold mysterious utterance. I speak with her, my friend of earlier blisses; In your soft lines another’s form I trace. On living lips I press long-silent kisses; In your sweet eyes I see a vanished face.

Once, before a tribal meeting Of the mountain throng, Kazbek-hill with Shat-the-mountain[5] Wrangled loud and long. “Have a care, Kazbek, 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,” Kazbek, 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, Death-like, 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 Kazbek 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 is 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 Kazbek to count the foemen, Failed to count their streams. Glancing on his tribal mountains, Sadly gloomed the hill; Drew across his brows his mistcap, And for aye was still.

I’m sad, for, loving thee, I know full well That this world’s talk, with its calumnious spell, Will never spare thy fresh youth’s opening flower. For every happy day and sunny hour, Fate will exact in grief and tears his pay. I’m sad because I see my loved one gay!

Moscow, I love thee with a filial love, Strong, burning, tender, which a Russian knows! I love the holy gleam thy brows above, Thy battled Kremlin in its calm repose. In vain the foreign Potentate[6] essayed, Great Russian giant of a thousand years, To cope with thee, and, by deceit betrayed, To make thee bow thy soul to craven fears. In vain the Stranger spurred; you reared; he fell! The world grew silent ’neath his mighty spell; Whilst thou alone didst live, my stately one, Thou heir to glories ours, and ours alone! Thou livest still, and every stone of thine Doth tell of generations tales divine.