Batiushkov.

Ah! the flower is dead—the beauty is departed— All is fled we cherished; Love and Friendship, weep! Weep, Hymen, broken-hearted! Happiness is perished. Friendship! thy swift hands, with smiles and joys, array’d her In her living glory; Now, with sighs and tears, those trembling hands have laid her In earth’s dormitory. Plant the cypress there, the yew’s dark umbrage borrow, For such shade is meetest; Scatter wreaths, which youth shall dew with tears of sorrow, For youth’s tears are sweetest. All is gloomy round—the gale, while it reposes, Drops its tone of gladness: And some shadowy ghost strips all the budding roses— ’Tis the shrine of sadness. Hymen lingers here—pale, fetter’d, chill’d, despairing, Bent by grief undying: See his folded arms, bent eyes—his torch, yet flaring, On the grave is lying.

Bent o’er his sabre, torrents starting From his dim eyes, the bold hussar Thus greets his cherish’d maid, while parting For distant fields of war: ‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee! No anguish can those tears remove; For, by my troth and beard, I swear thee, Time shall not change my love. ‘That love shall bloom—a deathless blossom, My shield in fight—with sword in hand, And thou, my Lila, in my bosom, What shall that sword withstand? ‘Weep not, my fair one! O forbear thee! Those tears can bid no grief depart; And were I faithless, Maid! I swear thee, Anguish would tear my heart! ‘Then my good steed would sure betray me, And falter in the battle-fray, In peril’s hours refuse t’ obey me— My stirrup would give way. ‘The sword, my valour’s proudest token, When grasp’d, like rotten wood would break; And I should seek thee, spirit-broken, Death’s paleness on my cheek.’ But the false horseman’s steed obey’d him, Gentle and eager still;—his sword, Bright and unbroken, ne’er betray’d him, Though he broke oath and word. The tale of love—the tears which shower’d From Lila’s eye—were all forgot; The rose-wreath faded—pale—deflower’d:— Such buds re-blossom not! That maiden’s breast of peace he rifles; Then hies him to another’s breast; Man’s oaths to woman are but—trifles; And love itself—a jest. He serves—secures—and then he slights them; His vows are change—and treachery; For laughing Cupid’s arrow writes them Upon the shifting sea.

Sunt aliquid manes; letum non omnia finit; Luridaque evictos effugit umbra rogos. Propertius.

To Albion’s misty isle across the waves I sped me: It look’d as if interr’d beneath a leaden sea, And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me, While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody. The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling, And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill, And to the watch the active helmsman calling, The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still. All seem’d to rock itself to gentle thought; Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, look’d forth, And through the night and through the mist I sought, I sought the star beloved of my domestic north. Then into memory melted every feeling— My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace, And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing, Cover’d my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness. Then dreams with other dreams were blended, And lo! there stood—was it a dream?—the form Of that dear friend who his career had ended Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm. He stood upon the mist, and smiled—his face, Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining Like the young spring in gaiety and grace, Even as an angel from high heaven declining:— ‘Comrade of better time! and is it thou? And is it thou?’ I cried, ‘thou hero bright! Did I not in the fury of the fight Attend thee—and when thou hadst fallen below Make thy new grave—and on a neighbouring tree Write with my sword thy feats of bravery, And follow’d thy cold ashes to their bed, And hallow’d it with prayers, and with tears watered? Speak, unforgotten one! speak! was it a deceit? Is all that’s past a dream—a cheating dream? A dream that corpse—a dream that grave—that sheet Wrapt round thee—were they not—did they but seem? O but one word! let that tongue’s melody Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear: O unforgotten one! stretch out to me Thy old right hand of friendship—stretch it here.’ I sprung towards him—Oh! the mists had dimm’d my eye— He vanish’d like a shade—a lock of airy smoke— Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky, And I, arousing from my dream, awoke. Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping; The very winds—the very waves, at rest; And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping; The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast. But I was troubled—peace had left my soul— I stretch’d my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see— I called on him—whom I could not control— On thee—belov’d one! best of friends! on thee!

’Tis a calm and silent even, Luna rests upon the sea; See! the impelling breeze has driven, Driven a little bark to me. What a lovely child is seated At the helm—a trembling child! ‘Thou wilt perish, boy ill-fated! Whelm’d among the surges wild.’ ‘Help me! help me! gentle stranger! All my strength, alas! is gone: Take the helm—conduct the ranger To some harbour of thy own.’ Pity’s warmth, that never freezes, Bid me seize the helm:—we sped, Wafted by awakening breezes, As by feather’d arrows led. Swiftly, swiftly then we glided By the flowery shores along; Reach’d a spot where joy presided, Smiling nymphs, and dance and song. Music welcomed us and laughter, Garlands at our feet were thrown; Then I look’d my wanderer after— I was left—the bark was gone. On the stormy shore I laid me, Careless of the surge’s spray; Sought the child who had betray’d me, Saw him laugh—and row away. Lo! he beckons—lo! he urges— Through the noisy waves I fly: Off he speeds across the surges, Laughing out with louder joy. Wet and weary, I retreated To the scene of revelry:— ’Twas a fairy dream that cheated— All was blank obscurity. Wanderer! if that boat should ever Meet thy vision, O be coy! ’Tis delusive—trust him never— Cupid is a wicked boy.

There, where the swift Rhone’s waters flow Its verdant banks between; Where fragrant myrtles bending grow, And Rhone reflects their green; There, where the vineyards deck the hills, And o’er the valleys spread, Which golden citrons’ fragrance fills, And plantains rear their head— There stood, as sunk the lord of day, Upon the smiling shore, One who long watch’d the waters play, And thought his sorrows o’er; A Russian hero—stolen by war, The honour of the Don; Divided from his friends afar, He wander’d there alone. ‘O roll!’ he sang, ‘ye waters roll— Flow in your glory on; Your waves shall waken on my soul The memory of the Don. My days pass by without an aim, Amidst life’s busy roar; For what is life without its fame, Or the bright world?—’tis poor. ‘Now nature wears its spring-tide dress, The sun shines splendidly; All liberty and loveliness— O! why am I not free? O roll, ye waters! rage, thou Rhone! And waken, as ye roll, The thoughts of my domestic zone Within my troubled soul. ‘The maidens here are fair and bright, Their glance is full of fire; And their all-graceful smiles of light Might satisfy desire. But what is love in foreign lands, Or joy?—I only know The joy and love that bless our sands, Midst forests and midst snow. ‘Give me my freedom—let me tread Once more my country’s strand; With frost and storm all overspread— My home—my father-land! Deep is the snow around my door; But give me my own steed, And day and night, the mountains o’er, Me to my home he’ll lead. ‘At home, there’s one who sits and keeps The memory of her love; And often to the window creeps, And pours her prayers above. She guards the thoughts of him whose mind Guards every thought of her; She pats the horse I left behind— How privileged to be there! ‘O roll, thou Rhone! ye waters roll— Rush in your glory on; Your waves still waken in my soul The memory of the Don. Come, winds! come hither from the north, Come, in your freshness, come: And thou bright pole-star blazen forth, Memento of my home!’ So spake the prisoner, as he turn’d To Lyons his tired eye, When long in exile’s chains he mourn’d His hapless destiny. He sang—the Rhone roll’d proudly on, The moon oft kiss’d its tide; And oft on Lyons’ turrets shone The sun in all his pride.

Here, in the misty days of time departed, The ranks of bards oft tuned their solemn hymn; Teutonic minstrels sang—gay—eager-hearted— Still’d is their music now—their light is dim. Thy waves roll on—they roll as then— Their proud, untired, untroubled way— Eternal is thy course—while men, Unlike thy waves—decline—decay.