Karamsin.

In the dark night the storm-wind rages, The gray flash trembles in the sky; Rolls from the blackening clouds the thunder, And rattling torrents sweep the wood. No signs of life, of living beings, The welcoming roof had shelter’d all, All but one lost and lonely wanderer— Raïssa—to the dark night bare. Despair was seated in her bosom; The thunder-tempest moved her not; And even the hurricane’s loud howling Scarce drown’d Raïssa’s heavy plaints. Her cheek was like the faded foliage, Her lip—th’ unwater’d, withering flow’r; Upon her eye—a veil of darkness, And fearful were her bosom’s throbs. There hurried from her snowy bosom, Which savage, thorny boughs had torn, Of burning blood a crimson rivulet— It fell upon the green damp ground. Above the sea, a granite mountain Raised proudly its gigantic head; Raïssa scaled it, wandering lonely Through clefts and stony pyramids. The deep raged furiously—the lightning Frightfully flash’d;—the mountain-waves Roll’d, lifting up their maddening voices; And the earth trembled as they spoke. Raïssa look’d around—was silent: But soon her tones of sorrow burst, And mingled with the raging tempest— ‘Lost—lost for ever! Woe is me! ‘Kronīd—Kronīd—O cruel lover! O whither, whither art thou fled? Why hast thou left thy own Raïssa Alone in such a dreadful night? ‘Kronīd—return—return—forgiveness, Forgetfulness, shall both be thine: No!—Thou wilt come not to Raïssa— Why did I know thee—wherefore love? ‘My father and my mother loved me, And fondest love was their return; My days roll’d by, on downy pinions, Midst harmless sports and joyous thoughts. ‘Thou didst approach me like an angel, And, sighing, these sweet words didst say: “I love thee—yes! I love—Raïssa!” My parents’ love I soon forgot. ‘Transported, yet with trembling bosom, And weeping in that dream of bliss, Into thy opening arms I threw me, And gave my heart alone to thee. ‘On thee reposed and dwelt my spirit, I breathed, I lived for thee alone; The sun in thy sweet smile was beaming, Thou wert my present deity. ‘Why, when thy bosom beat with rapture, Why died I not—in transports then: Had I not seen thee false and treacherous, How sweet, how blessed ’twere to die. ‘But ah! while thus securely dreaming In deepest sleep, another maid Loved and was loved—and I am banished— Banished is thy Raïssa now. ‘I thought I lay upon his bosom— I stretch’d my arms t’ embrace him there— I but embraced the heedless breezes— He was already far away. ‘The dream was fled—and I awoke me— I call’d thee—all was still as death: I sought thee with strain’d eye—but vainly— My friend, my friend was no where found. ‘I hurried to a mountain-summit, I—hapless-spirited! Kronīd Is fled afar with his Liudmilla! Then sank I senseless on the earth. ‘And since that miserable moment My days, my nights in sorrow flow; I seek thee—every where I call thee— But never hast thou heard my voice. ‘And now the spirit-worn Raïssa Calls on thee for the last, last time;— For peace has left my soul for ever.— Farewell! and be without me blest!’ So spoke Raïssa—and she threw her Into the sea. The thunder roar’d: The heavens announced that she had perish’d To him that had destroy’d her there.

When the dangerous rocks are past, When the threatening tempests cease, O how sweet to rest at last In a silent port of peace! Though that port may be unknown, Though no chart its name may bear, Brightly beam its lights on one— Blest to find his refuge there. There he paints the joyous band— Friends and family—what more? Bliss!—he cries—thou hallow’d land! And he springs upon the shore. Life! thou art the storm—the rock! Death! the friendly port thou art:— Haven from the tempest shock, Welcoming the wanderer’s heart. Yes! I see from yonder tomb Promised peace and tranquil rest: Death! my haven! I shall come, Soothe me on thy mother-breast.

Russia had a noble Tzar, Sovereign honour’d wide and far; He a father’s love enjoy’d, He a father’s power employ’d. And he sought his children’s bliss, And their happiness was his: Left for them his golden halls, Left for them his palace walls. He, a wanderer for them, Left his royal diadem: Staff and knapsack all his treasure; Toil and danger all his pleasure. Wherefore hath he journey’d forth, From his glorious, sceptred north? Flying pride, and pomp, and power; Suffering heat, and cold, and shower. Why?—because this noble king, Light and truth and bliss might bring, Spread intelligence, and pour Knowledge out on Russia’s shore. Wherefore would this noble king Light and truth and virtue bring, Spread intelligence, and pour Knowledge out on Russia’s shore? He would guide by wisdom’s ray All his subjects in their way; And while beams of glory giving, Teach them all the arts of living. O thou noble King and Tzar! Earth ne’er saw so bright a star— Tell me, have ye ever found Such a prince the world around?

Where art thou lingering, tell me, thou fair one? There where the nightingale wakes her soft music, In the night’s darkness complaining From the top boughs of the myrtle? There, where in solitude murmurs the streamlet, Gliding along its green borders unnoticed, Soothing man’s turbulent bosom Gently to peace and to silence? There, where the rose in its pride and its glory Blushes, bedew’d with the tears of the morning, While with the breezes disporting; Whispering its thoughts to the zephyrs? There, where the sun first illumines the mountain— Heights inaccessible—cloud-fashion’d palace— Where, in the ages departed, Spirits and gods had their dwellings? Oft have I heard thy sweet voice gently speaking, Oft on thy throne of bright clouds have I seen thee, Stretch’d out my arms to embrace thee— Ah!—I had seized but a shadow.

Sing in the forest’s leafy night, Gentle bird—unnoticed sing; Sing in Luna’s silver light, Tones of sorrow echoing. Tell me why my tears are falling Like a rivulet—tell me why Memory, when the past recalling, Blends thee with the days gone by? Ah! those hallow’d friends I number, Who upon earth’s peaceful breast In death’s tomb of silence slumber! Green moss decks their place of rest. All their turfs, sweet flowers adorn them, I am left alone to mourn them— Still I mourn them—still regret— Therefore like a rivulet Flow my tears—with whom shall I Now thy sweetest strains enjoy? Who shall greet the spring with me? Spring is winter—wanting thee. Now my soul must bow, subdued, Life has no vicissitude; All is dark—my heart is weary— And the world—all waste and dreary. Tell me, lovely nightingale, When thy gentle song will fall On my grave? for O its breath Is meet melody for death.