Karamsin.

Curses on the world’s decree! That decree which bid us part: Who has e’er resisted thee, Passion-throbbing, maddened heart? Is aught holier than the light Kindled in our souls by heaven? Is aught stronger than the might Given to love—to beauty given? Yes! I love—shall ever love! Curse the passion if ye will, Call down vengeance from above, Still I love—adore her still! Holy Nature! I, thy child, To thy sheltering bosom flee: Thou hast fanned this flame so wild, I am innocent with thee. If to yield to passion’s sway, Be a dark and damning sin; Why hast thou, O tempter! say, Lighted passion’s fires within? No! thy storm-winds as they rolled, Gently rocked our secret bed; And thy thunder, though it growled, Never burst upon our head. Bornholm! Bornholm! to thy home Memory—wildered memory flies: Thither would my spirit roam From its tears—its agonies! Vain the wish! an outlaw I, Followed by a father’s curse; Doomed in banishment to die, Or despairing live—as worse! Lila! has thy spirit shrunk From thy woes, and found a grave? Has thy burthened misery sunk In oblivion’s silent wave? Let thy shadow then appear, Smile upon me from the tomb; Give me, love! a welcome there, Come, though veil’d in darkness,—come!

FIRST VOICE. How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear! With the howls of the storm-wind—the creaks of the bier, And the white bones all clattering together! SECOND VOICE. How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep! Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flow’rets perfume it with ether. FIRST VOICE. There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss. SECOND VOICE. How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb! No tempests are there:—but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. FIRST VOICE. The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave:— ’Tis the vulture’s abode:—’tis the wolf’s dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs SECOND VOICE. There the coney at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod;—while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o’erhangs. FIRST VOICE. There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death, The trees are all barren and bare! SECOND VOICE. O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamine fair. FIRST VOICE. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears He is launched on the wreck-covered river! SECOND VOICE. The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes for ever.

The dry leaves are falling; The cold breeze above Has stript of its glories The sorrowing grove. The hills are all weeping, The field is a waste, The songs of the forest Are silent and past: And the songsters are vanished; In armies they fly To a clime more benignant, A friendlier sky. The thick mists are veiling The valley in white; With the smoke of the village They blend in their flight. And lo! on the mountain The wanderer stands, And sees the pale autumn Pervading the lands. Thou sorrowful wanderer. Sigh not—nor weep! For nature, though shrouded, Will wake from her sleep. The spring, proudly smiling, Shall all things revive; And gay bridal-garments Of splendor shall give. But man’s chilling winter Is darksome and dim; For no second spring-tide E’er dawns upon him. The gloom of his evening, Time dissipates never: His sun when departed Is vanisht for ever.

What a lovely flower I see Bloom in snowy beauty there— O how fragrant and how fair! Can that lily bloom for me? Thee to pluck, be mine the bliss, Place upon my breast and kiss! Why then is that bliss denied? Why does heaven our fates divide? Sorrow now my bosom fills; Tears run down my cheeks like rills: Far away that flower must bloom, And in vain I sigh, “O come!” Softly zephyr glides between, Waving boughs of emerald green. Purest flow’rets bend their head, Shake their little cups of dew: Fate unpitying and untrue. Fate so desolate and dread Says, “She blossoms not for thee;— In vain thou shedd’st the bitter tear, Another hand shall gather her:— And thou—go mourn thy misery.” O flower so lovely! Lilea fair! With thee I fain my fate would share, But heaven hath said, “It cannot be!”

You talk of your taste and your talents to me, And ask my opinion—so don’t be offended: Your taste is as bad as a taste can well be: And as for your talents—you think them most splendid.