FROM PUSHKIN.

I wander down the noisy streets, I enter crowded fanes, I join in youthful revelries, I give my fancy reins. I say, “The years are flying fast, And seen we scarce are here, Before we reach eternal tombs; For each the hour is near.” I glance upon the lonely oak, The patriarch of the wood, And think, “He’ll live through my brief day, He through my father’s stood.” I fondly kiss the little child, And, kissing, think, “Good-bye! I’m giving up my place to you. You bloom; ’tis mine to die.” Thus every day, thus every hour, I’m wont with thought to spend, And strive to guess the birthday-date Of my approaching end. Ah! where will Fate send Death to me? Abroad? in war? on deep? Or will a neighbouring valley hold My cold dust in its keep? Yet, though I know my lifeless form Must rot where’er I die, I’d fondly wish near my loved home, In my own land, to lie. There, round the entrance to the grave, Let young life freely play, And careless Nature calmly smile With ageless beauty gay!

We know the steed of mettle By the breed-marks branded on it; We know the haughty Highlander By his plumed and towering bonnet; And I know the happy lovers By the love-light in their eyes, Where, its tale of joyance telling, The languid flame doth rise.

No! not for me the wild tumultuous gladness, The rapturous rush, the transports, and the madness, The moans, the cries, the young Bacchante makes, When, clinging close in coilings like a snake’s, With wounding kiss, and gush of hot caresses, For the last moments’ thrills she quiveringly presses. Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me, And happy I—distracted more by thee— When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace, You press me softly in your meek embrace; Modestly cold, to love with passion fraught You scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught; Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last, As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.

Let me not lose my senses, God; Better the pilgrim’s scrip and rod, Or toil and hunger sad. Not that I prize this mind of mine, Or that my reason to resign I should not be right glad, If only then they’d set me free. At large! How sportively I’d flee To where the dark wood gleams! I’d sing in raving ecstasies, Forgetting self in fantasies Of changeful wondrous dreams. To the wild waves I’d lend an ear, And glancing upward, full of cheer, Would scan the open sky; And strong and free I’d rush amain, A whirlwind sweeping o’er the plain, Crashing through woods I’d fly. But there’s the rub! You lose your sense— Are dreaded like a pestilence, And clapped in prison drear. They chain you to the idiot’s yoke, And, through the cage-bars, to provoke The wild beast they draw near. No more the nightingale to hear At midnight singing sweet and clear, Nor greenwood’s rustling strains, But only brother-madmen’s cries, The nightly keeper’s blasphemies, And shrieks, and clang of chains.

I’ve overlived aspirings, My fancies I disdain; The fruits of hollow-heartedness, Sufferings alone remain. ’Neath cruel storms of Fate, Withers my crown of bay, A sad and lonely life I lead, Waiting my latest day. Thus, struck by latter cold, While howls the wintry wind, Trembles upon the naked bough The last leaf left behind.

With autocratic hand He boldly sowed the light; He did not scorn his native land— He knew her destined might. A carpenter, a seaman, A scholar, hero, he, With mighty genius on the throne, A labourer was incessantly.

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 awhile 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!”

Play, my Kathleen; No sorrow know. The Graces flowers Around thee throw. Thy little cot They softly swing, And bright for thee Dawns life’s fresh spring. For all delights Thou hast been born; Catch, catch wild joys, In life’s young morn! Thy tender years To love devote; While hums the world, Love my pipe’s note.

I’ve raised myself no statue made with hands; The People’s path to it no weeds will hide. Rising with no submissive head, it stands Above the pillar of Napoleon’s pride. No! I shall never die; in sacred strains My soul survives my dust, and flies decay— And famous shall I be, while there remains A single Poet ’neath the light of day. Through all great Russia will go forth my fame, And every tongue in it will name my name; And by the nation long shall I be loved, Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved; Because I strove to serve them with my song, And called forth mercy for the fallen throng. Hear God’s command, O Muse, obediently, Nor dread reproach, nor claim the Poet’s bay; To praise and blame alike indifferent be, And let fools say their say!

Until Apollo calls the Bard To share the holy sacrifice, Plunged in the petty cares of life The Poet’s spirit lies. Silent and still his sacred lyre, His soul to sleep a prey, Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seems More worthless, p’raps, than they. But once the sacred summons rings And strikes his eager ears, The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused, On upward pinion steers. Then earthly pleasures cease to charm; He scorns the babbling crowd; No more beneath their Idol’s feet His haughty head is bowed. He flies—and wild and stern his moods, His notes, now grave, now gay— To shores where lonely billows play, To depths of whispering woods.