Dmitriev.

What vision, history, bring’st thou now To flit before my wandering eye? In the dark night, amidst the glow Of the pale moon, that tremblingly Shines, Irtish takes its wilder’d way: It whirls—it wanders—and its spray Is scatter’d o’er the rugged shore. Two men are there—pale—bent beneath, Like shadows from the realm of death. Their brows are hung their bosoms o’er: One young—a beard, by age made white, Reach’d to the other’s waist—they wear A simple ornament—affright And terror seem attendants there. Round their steel helmets many a bird Flapping its ominous wing is heard, And spectres rustle in the air: Their vestments from the wild beasts’ lair Were brought—their breasts in flint are wrapt, And with the rime and hoar-frost capt; A broad knife at their girt was hung; Beneath them two tympanas lay, And broken, worm-worn lances: they— They were Siberian Shamana⁠[1]⁠. I listen’d there—and thus they sung: OLD MAN. Yes! Irtish, rage—thy murmuring roar Echoes our griefs—the storm that lowers Is meet—for all our sunshine’s o’er— Ah, woe is ours! YOUNG MAN. Ah! woe is ours, And fearful is time’s threatening frown! OLD MAN. Thou whose proud crown, in days of old, Three different nations⁠[2] shelter’d—known To history—and by fame enroll’d, Mother of many lands, and land Of hoary-headed glory—thou— Even thou, Siberia—thou must bow, Smitten by desolation’s hand. YOUNG MAN. Thy people are all scatter’d now— Scatter’d as the whirlwind drives the sand; Thy Kutshum⁠[3] is departed too— Dead—distant from his father-land. OLD MAN. Thy Shamana are swept away Whose fear, whose fame had fill’d the world. Is it for this my hair is gray, That century-aged warriors hurl’d Into the dust—even from their tomb Call—loudly call on others—Come, And rouse again Shaitana’s⁠[4] day? YOUNG MAN. Ye Gods! where was your conqueror then? OLD MAN. O miserable, mournful doom! That handful of Muscovia’s men!— O had the blasting lightning riven— Deluge—or plague—the shame, the stain Might have been borne—but Jermak!—Heaven! YOUNG MAN. O curse him now, Siberia’s hills! Streams, vales, on him your curses be! Night—starless night—Siberia fills— The desolating demon he! OLD MAN. He came—a torch of fury lighted— A frost, that all creation blighted! Where’er he went his ravaging breath Brought, like the withering pestilence, death! And death ruled o’er our land benighted. YOUNG MAN. The brother of the king he slew. OLD MAN. With Mehmet Kul⁠[5]⁠, Siberia’s pride, I saw him struggle—and there flew The whistling barbs on every side. Kul from its sheathe the sabre drew, And thus in generous rage he cried: ‘O mock not, death!—an unstain’d name With chains—with infamy—or shame!’ Then rush’d he fiercely on the foe. O fearful sight!—their sabres flash— Their eyes are fire—and blow to blow Is echoed in the horrid clash:— Both swords are shiver’d—and they stand Unarm’d, with upraised close-clench’d hand. ’Tis man to man, and breast to breast: The forest glades the shock repeat, And the earth shakes beneath their feet, And their blood flows like rain—the best, The bravest blood: their big hearts burst— Their knees give way—their sinews crack— Their flanks are broken—heat, and thirst, And weariness:—’tis now the first— ’Tis now the second faints—th’ attack Kindles again:—who wins?—Jermāk. ‘Mine art thou now—from this proud hour All, all is conquer’d—all is won.’ YOUNG MAN. Our thread of destiny is spun! The victor’s desolating power Has crush’d Siberia—but her sighs— Her heavy groans—— OLD MAN. Will ever rise. But hear, my son!—At eventide, In this dark solitude I trod, And brought my offering to our God; While sad devotion’s thoughts came o’er me, A howling north wind by my side Rush’d, scattering the riven leaves before me; The hundred-winter oak trees mutter’d Terrible sounds—the wild goat fled, Affrighted, from his wonted bed;— I fell:—some godlike voice thus utter’d: ‘Racha⁠[6] no suppliant prayer shall hear When spreading his avenging token. Siberia! thou his laws hast broken— Take thy reward—his curses bear:— Thou the white monarch’s⁠[7] slave shalt be, And every day-break, every eve, Shall fetter’d find thee—fetter’d leave; And Jermak’s fame, and Jermak’s race, Find an eternal resting-place, Long as the moon its course shall keep.’ ’Twas silence—and from heaven’s high doors A thrice-repeated thunder roars, Lost—lost in darkness drear and deep. Oh! woe is ours—— YOUNG MAN. O woe is ours! Then sighing—trembling—then they rose From the cold rock where lichen grows; They raise their war-arms from the sand, And wandering slowly ’long the strand, The mist conceals them from my eye. Thy dust, Jermāk, sleeps still and calm, But Russia shall erect on high Thy pyramid, and shall embalm Thy name with flowers and poetry: A pile of gold, which thy good spear Won from Siberia, shall she rear! What said I, thoughtless one!—what dream Has passion in its sleep created? Where is his fane?—the dust of him Is lost—his grave unconsecrated, Unknown:—that dust the wild-boars tread; The savage Ostyaks there chase, With their wing’d barbs, the timid race Of fawns o’er the vast desert spread. But be consoled, thou heir of fame! The genius of the lyre is come To sing her matins o’er thy tomb; And many an angel guards thy name While seated on thy ruins:—verse Shall thus her sweetest strains rehearse; ‘Great One! who in the hoary time Wast born—and victory led thee on— Death stopp’d thee in thy course sublime, And now thy very dust is gone. Though thy forefathers sought their food In the rude plain and wilder’d wood; Though savage wolves escorted thee, And fame ne’er spread thy feats abroad, Yet still thy glory’s majesty Endures—and thou art half a God. From age to age—above decay, Till lasting night time’s day shall close; Till the proud heavens shall pass away, And Time upon his scythe repose⁠[8]⁠.’

Receive the minstrel wanderer Within thy glades, thou shadowy wood! No idle tone of joy be here; Nor let even Venus’ song intrude! Fair Moskva’s smile my vision fills— Her fields, her waters,—towering high, And, seated on her throne of hills, A glorious pile of days gone by. O Moskva, many a nation’s mother, How bright thy glances beam on me! Where, like to thee—where stands another— Where, Russia’s daughter, like to thee! As pearls thy thousand crowns appear, Thy hands a diamond sceptre hold; Thy domes, thy steeples bright and clear, Like sunny rays on eastern gold. The treasures of the orient meet Those of the west: through every street A stream of wealth and luxury flows. Thy sons are natural heirs of fame, Courage and glory shrine their name; Thy daughters—lovely as the rose. But war has spread its terrors o’er thee, And thou wert once in ashes laid; Thy throne seem’d tottering then before thee, Thy sceptre feeble as thy blade. Sarmatian fraud and force, o’er-raging The humbled world, have reach’d thy gate; Thy faith with flattering smiles engaging, Now threatening daggers on thee wait— And they were drawn—thy temples sank— Thy virgins led with fetter clank— Thy sons’ blood streaming to the skies— ‘Spirit of vengeance! now arise. Save me, thou guardian angel!—save!’ So criedst thou in thy agony. Thy streets are silent as the grave— The unsheath’d sword—it hangs o’er thee. And where is Russia’s saviour—where?— Stand up—arouse thee—in thy might! Moskva alarm’d—surrounded there And clouded, as a winter’s night. Look!—she awakes—she knows no fear, And young and old, and prince and slave;— Their daggers flash like boreal light; They crowd—they crowd them to the fight. But who is that with snowy hair— The first—that stern old man—the tide Of heroes he leads onward there! Pozharsky—Russia’s strength and pride! What transport tunes my lyre!—my lays Seem glowing with celestial fire: O! I will sing that old man’s praise; Shout loudly now, thou heavenly choir! I hear—I hear the armour’s sound: The dust-clouds round the pillars rise— See! Russia’s children gather round. Pozharsky o’er the city flies, And from death’s stillness he awakes The very life of valour.—Lo! Midst the star’s light, and sunny glow, He forms the firm courageous row. Here—there: hope, joy, again appear: The burghers gather round him there, And range them for the combat now. ‘And why this crowd?’ a warrior calls From a high pinnacle⁠[9]⁠—he saw— His senses whelm’d in fear and awe— He fled from Kremlin’s royal walls. ‘Sarmatians! to your swords!’ he said; ‘Delay not, for we are betray’d: ‘I saw the gathering enemy ‘Stretch’d like a waking snake along: ‘They gain the city rapidly— ‘The fields are cover’d with the throng.’ ’Tis bustle all—’tis all dismay; What crowds of soldiers fill each street! Round walls and gates their cohorts meet, And like a whirlwind urge their way To where Sclavonian thunders roar! And see! how bright the heaven is glowing!— What smoke—what flame—what blood is flowing! Sword echoes sword the wide plain o’er; Whole ranks are harvested that stood Like the firm oak trees of the wood: The bullets o’er the field are flying— Here sleep the dead, there shriek the dying: There, staggering ’neath a lance’s wound, A wild-horse madly stamps the ground, Flies—falls—and covers, as he dies, The turf on which his rider lies: Still the storm struggles in the air, And agony is every where. Death is the conqueror!—death—despair! They rule o’er village, field, and grove: A wounded maiden tears her hair, A hoary sire just looks above, Then to the ground—and sleeps serenely. Come, moralist! and study here: See that poor orphan, suffering keenly,— His star is sunk; the starting tear That falls for those whose blood was spilt— For others’ interests, others’ guilt, Trembles upon his cheeks; the fate Of war hath left him friendless—best Were it for him to join the rest, Nor live thus drear and desolate. And thrice the day hath seen the strife, And thrice hath dawn’d Aurora blithe; The battle-demon sports with life, Death waves untired his murderous scythe. Pozharsky’s thunder still is heard; He speeds him like the eagle-bird Following his prey—destroying—crushing,— Then on the Poles with fury rushing, He scatters them like flying sands,— That giant of the hundred hands. On! On!—What transports of delight! ‘Hurrah! Pozharsky wins the fight!’ The city joins the ecstasy— ‘O yes! our Moskva now is free!’ O memorable morning’s ray! O ne’er to be forgotten day, What painter’s pencil shall portray thee, And in thy natural joy array thee, And tell each bosom’s rapture then! Millions in wild delight!—they crowd Upon the bulwarks, shouting loud:— The very roofs are made of men. What flower-wreathes o’er the streets they flung, What triumph-songs the churches sung; How high, how bright the banners hung, And palms crown’d every citizen! Where is the hero?—where is he Who led our sons to victory? List to that cry of eloquence— ‘What—what shall be his recompense?’ Look!—He who made the invaders bleed, And Moskva and his country freed, He—modest as courageous—he Takes the bright garland from his brow, And to a youth he bends him now— He bends his old and hero-knee. ‘Thou art of royal blood,’ he said, ‘Thy father is in foemen’s hand; ‘Wear thou that garland on thy head, ‘And bless, O bless our father-land!’ Valiant old hero! Russia’s pride, And Russia’s love,—I bless thee now. By the gigantic mountain’s side May everlasting waters flow; May marshes turn to groves and woods; Out of our wastes may gardens grow; And in our barren solitudes May cities flourish—and decay: While generations pass away, And brighter lights disperse their ray; Yet thou shalt be the poet’s charm, And thou shalt be the warrior’s glory, Through never-ending time to warm The bosom with thy patriot story.

Now furl your sails—and heaven be blest! For we have reach’d the promised land: And, Volga, thou whose wavy breast Has brought us to this smiling strand— Volga!—the king of waters—named The great, the proud, the glorious—famed In history—now farewell! ’Twas thou Who listenedst to the poet’s song Ere mingled with earth’s busy throng: To thee his Muse was wont to bow. And all my hopes have now been crown’d, And every joy has been fulfill’d, Which, when my childish thoughts look’d round, Some fond aspiring dream instill’d. When towards thy banks I stretch’d my eye, Peopled thy shores with industry, Spread on thy waves the silver sail!— The dream is realised—I view The picture which my fancy drew— Vision of promised brightness—hail! I held sweet converse with thy winds, I heard thy waves, thy tempests roar; I read each threatening cloud that binds The soul in fear, and shakes the shore. As from a tower I look’d, the height Of granite mountains dimm’d my sight; And lost, and wondering as I view’d, I ask’d—Who saw the days of yore? Proud cities rise her borders o’er, Where ’twas a desert’s solitude! Here, meadows, villages, and herds, And smiling cottages are placed; There, flowers and furze, and savage birds, Are the sole tenants of the waste, And nought seems wanting to my sight. I hear—I hear the gay delight Of dancing nymphs midst yonder trees; They fill the air with melody, While, from his gloomy cavity, The savage boar their revelling sees. The sailor, as he skims thy wave, Gathers the listening crew around, And pointing to a crumbling grave, Says, ‘Rasin there his dwelling found.’ But pensive silence checks his tongue, The damp sweat on his brow is hung, His finger trembles, frozen by cold; For o’er his thoughts there rush a throng Of the wild images which song Hath gather’d from the mists of old. Yes! midst the ruins time hath pil’d, There strides upon thy waves the wan And awful form of John the Wild, The terrible of Astrachan. I see his hordes, in rude affright, Raining, from yonder vineyard’s height, Their arrow streams upon the Russ— The Russ—who hurries to the fray And conquers—see those hordes obey, And, trembling, yield their land to us. I heard the Caspian oracle Speak in a voice of thunder—‘See! ‘Persians! your fate how terrible: ‘He comes—the lord of victory! ‘A thousand bolts his hand sends forth, ‘He rules the south, he guides the north, ‘The crescent and the lion flee! ‘Hark! for he comes—their future king ‘The subject waves of Volga bring, ‘Derbent! thy lord of victory.’ So spake the sea-god—and his tears Fell from his watery eyes like rain; The waves roll’d round the man of years, He plunged him in the waves again. But, Volga, brighter triumphs thou Wreath’st in thy glory-garland now, And fairer palms of victory wave; The Caspian trembles at thy feet, The Sound, the Belt, thy trophies greet, And all the ocean is thy slave. And shalt thou not be sung, bright river? And like thy blessings be thy praise; Shall music’s voice be dead for ever, Nor to thy fame one anthem raise? O would the god of song inspire, Ganges ne’er heard so loud a lyre As I would tune, sweet stream, for thee! Euphrates and old father Nile, Before thy glory should be vile, And earth resound thy majesty!

Let each his wayward will pursue, I envy not the laurel bough:— I’ll have the myrtle drench’d in dew, Which thou hast smiled on—maiden, thou! I’ve seen the hero seek the fray, I’ve seen the sage illume the world; What then? They sparkled through their day, And were to death’s oblivion hurl’d! And whether roses o’er them bloom’d, Or nettle weeds oppress’d the ground; They were in silence’ breast entomb’d, Nor heeded all that pass’d around. Then grief begone—and welcome joy! And three times welcome, love’s sweet bliss! For as our days like arrows fly, How precious every moment is! Perchance e’en now the mandate’s given To call the hurrying pilgrim home; Perchance the azure arch of heaven Now hears the summons—‘Mortal—come!’ O tarry not, fair maiden! give Thy hours to rapture, and be blest! And live, since time is fleeting, live While pleasure’s life-blood warms thy breast.

O had I but known before What a misery love might be! Had that bright star, shining o’er, Ne’er employ’d its witchery— O had I refused to bear This his ring, that magic spell— Never sought the window where He was smiling—it were well! When the light of passion shone, Well I might have pass’d it by; Let the wax-wing’d child fly on Tow’rds some maid less blest than I: Wherefore did I seek the grove Where the swain was wandering then— Met him with a look of love— Left him—and return’d again? Ah! that heart, that was so gay, Sinks ’neath sorrow’s heavy load: Wretched one—I turn’d away:— Fix’d me in the public road— Wept and wail’d—Art thou unmoved, Passing traveller?—pity me! He was faithless that I loved:— Set me from love’s misery free!

Once a gentle turtle dove Night and day dishearten’d mourn’d; He was widow’d of his love, She had fled, but not return’d. He, whose wooing voice was heard Constant as the break of day, Pined, and droop’d—the faithful bird Still, and sad, and silent lay. While his thoughtless partner flew Here and there—with all she sported: All she wish’d to know, or knew, Greeted, trifled with, or courted. Oft he look’d, but look’d in vain, He so faithful, fond, and true; Slowly pined he ’neath his pain, Strength departed, sorrow grew. See, his head is ’neath his wing: Coldness o’er his bosom creeps— Ah! poor solitary thing! All is still—the turtle sleeps. Then the giddy, gadding dove, Fluttering gaily, thither hies, Takes her station by her love— ‘Husband! wake thee now,’ she cries. With her wings she fans the dead, Bitterest thoughts begin to flow:— Chloe! tell me, hast thou read? I’m a widow’d turtle too.

Of all flowers the fairest Is the rose to me; I had deem’d it dearest For its constancy. Every day completer Seem’d it to my view, And its breath was sweeter, Brighter was its hue. Trust not Fortune’s blossom, For my rose I found On the mountain’s bosom Choked with absinth round. Yet it had not perish’d; Still in smiles it shone— ’Twas the rose I cherish’d, But—its breath was gone. Chloe! I bethink me What a rose thou art! Foolish one! to link me To a woman’s heart.