Zhukovsky.

MINSTREL. Now silence wraps the battle field! The tents with lights are gleaming; And lo! the bright moon’s silver shield In the calm heaven is beaming. Fill, fill the glass of rapture, yet, In unity full-hearted; In wine the bloody strife forget, The grief for the departed! The glasses’ ruby stream to drain Is glory’s pride and pleasure— Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain, Thou art the hero’s treasure. WARRIORS. O yes!—the ruby stream to drain Is glory’s pride and pleasure— Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain, Thou art the hero’s treasure. MINSTREL. Now to the warriors of old time, The strong in fight and glory! These warriors and their deeds sublime Are lost in distant story! The grave hath gather’d up their dust, Their homes,—the storm hath razed them; Their helmets are devour’d by rust, And silent those who praised them: But in their children live their fires, We tread the land that bore them, And see the shadows of our sires With all their triumphs o’er them. O come! in all your brightness come, And smile complacent, near us; Look from your high and misty home, Encourage us and hear us. O Svatoslav! time’s injured son, Thy path an eagle’s flying: ‘There is no shame in dying—On!⁠[2]⁠ There is no shame in dying!’ And Donskoi, thou⁠[3]⁠! courageous man, Midst heathen foes we find thee; Destruction leading on thy van, And nought but death behind thee. Thou, Peter! thou, the hero’s crown, ‘Poltava!’ is repeated: Thy foes have thrown their sabres down, Thee, all the world has greeted. What! Robbers, would ye build your throne Upon our cities’ ruin? Thy horse and rider fell—begone! For vengeance is pursuing. Go hide thee in thy native woods, There thy ambition smother; Fate drives thee to their solitudes, Yes! thou, the rebel’s⁠[4] brother. Who is that white-hair’d hero, who That northern more than Roman? His penetrating glance looks through The phalanx of the foeman: From yonder clouds what shadowy rows Are tow’rds his footsteps turning? The spirits of the Alpine snows Are wailing loud and mourning. Franks and Sarmatians, at his view, Death’s icy paleness borrow; Well they may fear him—well may rue— It is the great Suvorov! Hail! sons of ages long gone by! Your glories are recorded; We follow you to victory, Like you to be rewarded. We see your ranks—they lead us on— The foe retreats before us; We scatter death, as ye have done, While ye are smiling o’er us. Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate We look to our Creator! ‘And death for death, and hate for hate, And curses on the traitor.’ WARRIORS. Draw swords, fill glasses, then, elate, Look to our great Creator! ‘And death for death, and hate for hate, And curses on the traitor.’ MINSTREL. This glass then to our country’s joys, Ne’er may our hearts feel colder; The scenes of mirth while we were boys, Of love, when we grew older! Our country’s plains, our country’s sky, The streams that flow beneath it; The memories of infancy, And all the thoughts that wreath it With joyous hopes and visions blest— Dear shrine of our affection, How glows our heart, how beats our breast, When beams the recollection. That is our country, there our home, There wife and babes attend us; And oft their prayers towards us roam, And oft to Heaven commend us! There dwell our plighted, chosen ones; How bright their memory flashes! Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones, And there our fathers’ ashes. For them we fight, for them we rove, For them have all forsaken; And may our land’s undying love In our sons’ breasts awaken! WARRIORS. For them we fight, for them we rove, For them have all forsaken; And may our country’s fadeless love In our sons’ breasts awaken! MINSTREL. Now to the Tzar that rules the Russ, And be his sceptre glorious; His throne an altar is to us— We swear to be victorious. The oath is heard—’tis stamp’d in blood— ’Tis sworn—there’s no returning; Our swords shall make our promise good, Our hearts with love are burning. Each Russ a son of victory, To duty’s ranks we throng us; Let every craven coward fly, For fear was ne’er among us. WARRIORS. Each Russ a son of victory, To duty’s ranks we throng us; Let every craven coward fly, For fear was ne’er among us. MINSTREL. Now to the chiefs that lead us on, The captains that we cherish; In life, in death, conjoin’d as one, And heaven for those who perish: That heaven where all, all holy is, All love, and peace, and union, And courage, dignity, and bliss, In undisturb’d communion. This stormy world we look beyond, To that serene though far-land; Here danger is our common bond, And glory is our garland. There sit the wreath-crown’d chiefs who led Our fathers long before us; Their shield of strength shall guard our head, Their voices thunder o’er us: On us their wakening smiles descend, Their frowns our foes pursuing; Yes! through their ranks what terrors blend, And threaten them with ruin! But they shall lead our warriors through, Amidst the battle’s raging; Death quits his terrors in our view, When with the foe engaging. Hail! martial hero! chief in fight⁠[5]⁠, Thou with the ringlets hoary, Who, like an eagle, takest thy flight Midst storm and thunder’s glory. His furrow’d, weather-beaten brow Attracts the inquiry curious; How cold and calm before the foe, But in his rage how furious! O wonder! from heaven’s halls there flew A glorious eagle o’er him⁠[6]⁠; He bow’d his head—what shouts! they knew That victory was before him. Fly to our fathers! eagle fly, And tell them we are speeding To fame, to glorious victory, Our hoary chieftain leading. He, strong in council, cool in fray, In every purpose steady; Well known to him is triumph’s way, His wisdom ever ready. Were Moskva’s glories razed in vain, Our country’s trophies riven? No! Russia stands erect again, For we are here—and heaven! Hail! hail, ye martial leaders all! Jermolov, valiant Roman! Friend of the brave, and valour’s wall, And terror of the foeman. Rajevsky, thou the chief ador’d! Amidst the strife we found thee Baring thy bosom to the sword, With thy young sons around thee. Hail! Milorádovich! to thee; The field of battle’s thunder: Thou tearest, in thy ecstasy, The tyrant’s chains asunder. And thou who saved’st Petropolis, Thou, Vittgenstein! brave leader! Shield of thy country, and her bliss, Thou dread of her invader! With darkness was his vision fill’d, When first the traitor saw thee; Alone, but leaning on thy shield, Numbering his ranks below thee. Then fear came o’er that traitor’s mind, His courage left him shatter’d; Thy sword was drawn—and, like the wind, His trembling ranks were scatter’d. Hail! Konovnizin! thou our joy! From danger absent never: Where bullets whiz, and arrows fly, There have we found thee ever. Before—behind—around him—we Saw terror, death, and danger: He stood, in his serenity, To all alarm a stranger. Himself forgotten—see him bear Down on those ranks of slavery; And valour’s self stood wond’ring there— He was the god of bravery. And thou, Platov! thou storm of fight, Thou Ataman the Lion! Thy busy lance—thy sling of might, Scathe—scatter all they fly on. A wild wolf broken from his lair— An eagle on stretch’d pinion:— Death whispering in the foeman’s ear, Throughout thy wide dominion. Amidst the woods his torches fly— How spreads the conflagration! Bridges oppose—in dust they lie— Towns—all is desolation! Hail! Nestor Benningsen, to thee! Nought can thy mind inveigle; Hero and sage—to enemy A serpent and an eagle. And hail! Woronzov! young and gay, Though ripen’d by discretion. And Tormassov! in battles gray, The flying foe’s oppression. And Baggovuth⁠[7]⁠, with heart of mail, Waving his sabre o’er ye. Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail! Our country’s pride and glory! WARRIORS. Hail! ranks of honour’d heroes, hail! Our country’s pride and glory! MINSTREL. Now, brothers! hallow those who died, Those from the strife departed; Their place is vacant by our side, Before us they have started. No more shall they disperse the foe, Or hear the battle’s thunder; Their hearts no more with rapture glow— They sleep in silence under. Their sword, their shield, are on the ground, Where damp and rust shall eat them; Their proud war-horses wander round, Without a friend to greet them. O Kulinev! the brave, the strong! Upon thy shield reclining, Thou diedst amidst the battle throng, While thy bright sword was shining. Thou diedst e’en where thy childhood pass’d⁠[8]⁠ In happiest visions o’er thee; And thou hast made thy grave at last Where first thy cradle bore thee: And sure thy latest sigh was blest, For faith’s best hopes thou keepedst; That last sigh sought thy mother’s breast— Reach’d heaven—and then thou sleepedst. And where, Kutaissov!⁠[9] tell us where Thou in thy bloom alightest? His heart, his countenance were clear As virtue when ’tis brightest; He threw him in the battle ring— Death dropt its mantle o’er him: He touch’d the sweet harp’s sweetest string; Let every string deplore him! His steed approaches, dyed with gore— Where is the hand to guide her? His shield is there, blood-clotted o’er— The shield—but not the rider. Where are thy ashes, in what vale, What unknown cavern hidden? For they are sought o’er hill and dale By a heart-broken maiden. There lovelier shines the morning dew, The sun is brighter glowing; The breezes they are gentler too, More fair the flowrets blowing! And angel forms at midnight come, When mortal eyes are sleeping; Their silent watch around thy tomb In mild devotion keeping. And thou, Bagration!⁠[10] tears were shed, And prayers for thee ascended:— ’Twas all in vain, for thou art dead— Thy hero-race is ended. From rank to rank our warriors sigh’d, ‘God’s mercy shall restore him!’ And oft our foes, despairing, cried, ‘We yet shall fly before him!’ Nay! nay! that noble soul is gone, That generous heart is riven; To join Suvorov, he is flown;— To all the brave in heaven. Shades of our heroes! ye are blest, Ye roam in Eden’s gardens, Where time’s departed chieftains rest, And angels are the wardens. Your memory still has left its blaze, Its holy beamings reach us; A light which flows to distant days, How brave men died to teach us. Your names still mount above your graves, Your glories we inherit; And every unfurl’d flag that waves Is pregnant with your spirit. WARRIORS. Your names still soar above your graves, Your glories we inherit; And every unfurl’d flag that waves Is pregnant with your spirit. MINSTREL. One glass to vengeance! In the fray ‘Heaven for the right!’ our voices, And ‘death or victory!’ proudly say; And victory’s self rejoices. O count not on your numbers, foe! In vain ye boast your numbers; Our march is like the torrent’s flow, Which never, never slumbers. We have no treasures, but we bring Our arrows and our lances, And round us desolation fling— And death is in our glances. The Robber! he had spread his power Around our Moskva’s borders; And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower He issued forth his orders. ‘I trample on the base-born clay, ‘Which folly’s pride assembles, ‘And prince and subject both obey.’ Insulting one!—he trembles. For vengeance wakes her from her rest, And arms her with her torches; Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast, And drives him from our porches. Now bring thy slavish princes, now, To our ice-girded nation; And lead them o’er our paths of snow To horror and starvation. Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed, And close our country’s portals— O see! he strews the land with dead, With piles of frozen mortals. Now, Robber! look what thou hast done; Come, for the strife prepare thee! The land we fight on is our own— God’s vengeance, wretch! is near thee. WARRIORS. Now, Robber! look what thou hast done; Come, for the strife prepare thee! The land we fight on is our own— And God’s revenge is near thee! MINSTREL. One glass to friendship’s glory lend, That makes all sorrows lighter— O happy he who owns a friend! Heaven has no blessing brighter. Our joys to swell, our griefs to share, While by life’s storms we’re driven, Our conscience to direct us here, Our friendly staff for heaven. O be the sacred bond⁠[11] our guide, Our law, and our allegiance! ’Tis by our life-blood sanctified, And we have sworn obedience. WARRIORS. O be the sacred bond our guide, Our law, and our allegiance! ’Tis by our life-blood sanctified, And we have sworn obedience. MINSTREL. And this to Love!—and break it too— Its flame shines ever purely! For love’s sweet smile, and glory’s glow, They are twin-sisters surely. For he whom Heaven has train’d and taught, By love’s soft step attended, Whose thought still meets another’s thought, While heart with heart is blended— He is the hero—doubt or fear Ne’er enter in his bosom— For doth he not the garland wear Of which love wreathed the blossom? O love! thou art our morning star; How oft our steps thou meetest! Thy gay light glances, bright and far— Thy songs of all are sweetest: Thy breath oft waves our banners high, And to the fight thou guidest; Thou smilest on our victory, And o’er our dreams presidest. Look, foeman! on our battle shield, Our hearts’ love was the giver; ’Twas she who wrote upon its field, ‘Thine—even in death—for ever!’ Fond dreams, which fancy clads in all The beauties love can borrow! She sits behind yon garden wall Communing with her sorrow. Her plaints, her prayers, to heaven ascend, To thee her thoughts are flying— Now tears, now smiles, embalm her friend, ‘Ah! perhaps my friend is dying! When shall I hear his accents—when Will fly these days so dreary? O dawn, sweet morn of joy, again, For I am well nigh weary.’ O friends! it is a pride to die For those whose faith is plighted; Their love is ever hovering nigh, And we may die delighted. Their name upon our lips shall hang, While the death-wound is burning;— And it shall soothe the parting pang, While to earth’s bosom turning. The memory of the maid we love Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten, And seek with us the world above, Its mansions to enlighten. WARRIORS. The memory of the maid we love Shall, while we’re sinking, brighten— We’ll bear it to the world above, Its mansions to enlighten. MINSTREL. Now to the Muse the red-grape press— The Muse, whose voice of thunder Gives courage, energy, success, And tears fear’s chains asunder:— The arrows fly—and young and old With shield and sabre arm them— Midst the death-shower they throw them bold, For nothing can alarm them. The minstrel’s song has touch’d their soul, And valour’s tears are breaking, While hoary age bursts time’s control, And youthful strength is waking. Pride of the elder time, Bojan!⁠[12]⁠ Whose harp, though lost to story, Led on the brave Sclavonian With hymns of praise and glory! Thy songs prophetic did proclaim Peter the Great, the glorious: Petrov sang Saidunaisky’s name: Derzhavin’s lyre victorious Its tones of joy and music flung, Forest of Kama, o’er thee: Suvorov, thee Derzhavin sung, Hero of poet worthy. Old man! O could we hear again Thy swan-like tones to bless us! Thou sangst not idle glory’s strain, But vengeance to redress us. And not for conquest, not for fame, Thy lyre of passion pleaded— ’Twas struggling for an unstain’d name, Revenge for rights invaded. Sing, swan! thy song the chain will break Which many a land surrounded; And Slavery’s threatenings wax them weak Where thy proud notes are sounded. O honour then the Muses’ sons! And I—though mean and lowly:— Would that my lyre’s awaken’d tones Were all inspired and holy! In the deep valley’s loneliness That humble lyre was shrouded: I heard a voice, ‘To battle press!’ And to the combat crowded. Farewell, then, music—joy, farewell! I sped me to the battle: My song—the trumpets’ piercing swell; My choir—the cannons’ rattle. Yet will I sing the Robber’s fall, And your bright deeds, elated; For even now some whizzing ball Perchance with death is fated. But could my dying hour disperse The dreams I loved to cherish? And crush the spirit of my verse With my faint name to perish? The robber to his fame hath built A pile of bloodstain’d iron; And there your glory and his guilt Time’s records shall environ. WARRIORS. Then welcome be the sons of song, Who bid our victories blossom; And as our fathers pass along With triumph fills their bosom. MINSTREL. Your glasses:—To the God of Might, Bend on your knees before him: He led you to the glorious fight, And saved you—now adore him! The shield of virtue is his rod, He saves the poor and lowly; The rock of ages is our God— He scathes the proud one’s folly. Look to the glorious realms above, Where not a tear e’er started; And hear from thence that voice of love, ‘My children! be strong hearted!’ O immortality! thou sea Of silence—peaceful portal! How happy who is launch’d on thee, And straight becomes immortal! O happy they who fall in fight! For those they leave behind them Seek through a long and gloomy night The grave that might have shrined them. The son of battle breaks the bond Which to the vain world ties him; Soars to a brighter world beyond, Where misery never tries him. But we?—O let us trust in God, Whate’er our portion given, To lead us through life’s darksome road To happiness and heaven: Obedient to his holy will, Scattering all sin before us; And gently moving forward still, Till darkness gathers o’er us. If low our lot—a courage free; If high—no scornful blindness; In strength and power—simplicity; And universal kindness. Ready obedience where ’tis due— Our oaths—a sacred token! To love unshaken, fervent, true, And friendship’s pledge—unbroken. To those who sink—a ready hand, And comfort to the mourning; For tyrants—valour to withstand, For treachery—hate and scorning. The blaze of truth to shame a lie; All honest faith—befriended; And in death’s fight—calm bravery, And peace—when all is ended. O God of might! be thou our shield, Our squadrons lead and rally! Rider and horse to thee must yield, And perish in the valley. O God! in our behalf appear— Our foemen’s ranks be broken; Come, day of vengeance, dark and drear! And lo! the Lord has spoken. I saw him numerous as the sand Spread over hills and plains there; He waved his bright and murderous brand, And now—no trace remains there. WARRIORS. I saw him numerous as the sand Spread over hills and plains there; He waved his bright and murderous brand, And now—no trace remains there. MINSTREL. But look! the clouds are brightening now, The daylight is appearing; See! o’er the distant mountain’s brow The morning star uprearing. The twilight breaks—the vapours damp The hills are now surrounding; And lo! the slumber-girded camp, And morning-music sounding. But soon—but soon—as hours return, That band so calmly sleeping, Shall fate—her hand is on the urn— Shall fate prepare for weeping! O dawn thee not—let darkness try Thy waking beams to smother! For ah! to-day shall many an eye Mourn o’er a perish’d brother. Vain prayer—along the mountain’s height I hear the thunder roaring; Shouts from the plain announce the fight, The sun tow’rds heaven is soaring: The war-steeds rage and foam—anon The shock of arms engaging— The chieftain leads his soldiers on, And hearts with fire are raging. This is no time for wine nor song! Come, to the battle hurry! With naked sabre join the song, For death or triumph’s glory! Yes! ye who love us far away, Farewell! and if for ever, Preserve the memory of the day, And O forget us never! Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove— Beloved, one sacred greeting: Here—tender and undying love, There—an eternal meeting! WARRIORS. Thou, Lord of Lords! our bulwark prove— Beloved, one sacred greeting: Here—tender and undying love, There—an eternal meeting!

St. Silvester’s evening hour Calls the maidens round: Shoes to throw behind the door, Delve the snowy ground. Peep behind the window there, Burning wax to pour; And the corn for chanticleer Reckon three times o’er. In the water-fountain fling Solemnly the golden ring, Earrings too of gold; Kerchief white must cover them While we are chanting over them Magic songs of old. Feebly through the vapours shine Moonbeams on the hill; Silently sat Catherine, Sorrowful and still. ‘Maiden, why so pensive? we Fain thy voice would hear— Come and join our revelry! Take the ring, thou dear! Sing ‘Make haste and melt, and bring, ‘Goldsmith! come with golden ring, ‘Golden wreath for Kate! ‘Ring to deck her hand of snow, ‘Wreath to bloom upon her brow ‘At the altar-gate.’ I can sing no choral song While my love’s away; For my days are sad and long, Gloomier every day. Left alone—a year is past— Not a line to send— O my life is but a waste, Sever’d from my friend! Hast thou then forgotten me? Tell me, wanderer! can it be? Where’s thy dwelling—where? See, I pine ’neath secret smart: Guardian angel! watch my heart— Listen to my prayer! Cover’d with a napkin white, Stood a table there; Where a mirror, clear and bright, Shone amidst the glare. Vacant seats for two were placed— ‘Look within, O look! ’Tis the hour of spirits—haste! Read Fate’s opening book: To the mirror turn thy eye, And the door shall silently Open—List! ’tis he! Gently shall thy lover glide, Seat him by his maiden’s side, And shall sup with thee.’ Cath’rine sat before the glass— All alone was she, Watching all the shades that pass, Shuddering inwardly. But the glass is dark and drear, Still as death the room; Scarce a fading taper there Flitted midst the gloom. O how fear her bosom shook! Backwards then she dared not look! Dread had dimm’d her sight: And the dying tapers’ noise, And the cricket’s chirping voice, Cried—’tis middle-night! Breathless terror chill’d her o’er, And she shades her brow:— List! a knock is at the door, And it opens now: To the mirror then she turn’d, Stupefied with fear; Their two brilliant eyeballs burn’d, Ever bent on her. Horror heaved her breast, when lo! Gentle accents, sweet and slow, Glided on her ear: ‘All thy wishes are fulfill’d— All thy spirit’s sighs be still’d— ’Tis thy lover, dear!’ Cath’rine look’d—her lover’s arms Were around her thrown: ‘Maiden! banish all alarms, We are ever one! Come! the priest is waiting now, Life with life to blend; Torches in the chapel glow, Bridal songs ascend.’ Cath’rine smiled—her lover led— O’er the snow-clad court they sped, And the portals gain; There a ready sledge they found— Two fleet coursers stamp the ground, Struggling with the rein. Onwards! like the winds they go, When the storm awakes; Scattering round them clouds of snow, While the pathway shakes. All was dark and wild as night, Terrible, and new: Mist-wreaths dimm’d the pale moon’s light, Plains were drench’d in dew. Fear again possess’d the maid, And in gentlest tones she said, ‘Speak—my lover true!’ He was silent then—but soon Turn’d him to the wintry moon,— Pale and paler grew. Through the snow—a mountain’s height— Next the wild steeds pass’d; And a church appear’d in sight, ’Midst a gloomy waste: Then a whirlwind burst the door— Men are there who mourn; Clouds of incense rolling o’er, Waxen tapers burn. Lo! a black sepulchral shroud— ‘Dust to dust!’ the priest aloud Chants—the horses flew Tow’rds the door—her agony Rose—he spoke no word—but he Pale and paler grew. Clouds of snow ascend again— Lo! the coursers fly; And a raven on the plain Croaks, and passes by; ’Twas an awful, ominous sound! And the moonlight wanes; Darkness wraps the desert round O’er the steaming manes. See! a glimmering light is there, And upon the heather bare Stands a humble shed. Swifter—swifter flew the car, Whirl’d the snow around it far, But no farther sped. At the door they stopp’d anon, There—a moment stood:— Steeds—sledge—bridegroom—all are gone: All is solitude. Catherine on the waste was left, Midst dense clouds of snow; Of her lover now bereft, To commune with woe: But she hears a footstep now, Turns, and sees a taper glow; Crosses her, and stalks Trembling to the door—and knocks:— Of itself the door unlocks— In the maiden walks. There, upon a winding sheet, Lay a mortal bier; Christ’s bright image at its feet Shone resplendent there. Whither—whither art thou come, Maiden, all unblest? Thou hast sought a wretched home, Art a hapless guest! Catherine to the image flies, Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes, Bends her down and weeps; Presses to her breast the cross— Thoughts of heaven her soul engross, And she silence keeps. All is still!—The storm is hush’d, Faint the tapers beam, Light across the chamber rush’d— Momentary gleam:— All is wrapt in silence deep As when visions come. List! what gentle rustlings sweep Through the hallow’d room: Lo! a dove of silvery white, Soft and still, with eyes of light, Tow’rds the mourner springs: For a moment hovers there, Then upon her bosom fair Flaps his beauteous wings. Silence reign’d again.—Can all, All illusion be? Lo! the corpse beneath the pall Shudders fearfully: Bursts the mantling bier of death, Throws his shroudings by: On his brow he wore a wreath, Frozen was his eye: From his lips a murmur breaks, With his hand a sign he makes, Pointing to the maid: Trembling she—she dared not move— But the bright and silver dove On her bosom play’d. Fann’d her with its gentle wing:— To the dead man’s breast Then she saw her sweet dove spring— There it seem’d to rest. Heaved that icy corpse a sigh, As in dark despair, Gnash’d his teeth in agony, Turn’d his eyes on her. Paler wax’d those lips so pale; And the fix’d eye told the tale That life’s film was broke. Catherine! lift thy drooping head! All is o’er—thy lover’s dead!— God!——and she awoke. Where?—within the self-same room Where the mirror stood:— Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom With its golden flood; Chanticleer had flapp’d his wings, Sung his early song: All is bright—the matin rings— O thy dream was long! Long indeed, and dreadful too; And my spirit long shall rue The dread prophecy! Tell me, Future’s misty night, Shall my fate be dark or bright, Bliss or misery? Catherine in the window sat, Sorrowful and still: Tell me—tell me what is that? Mist-cloud on the hill? In the sunbeams shines the snow; Leaps the frozen dew: List! I hear the bells below, And the horses too. Lo! they come—the sledge is near— Now the Isvoshchik’s voice I hear— They have pass’d the grove:— Fling the gates wide open—fling— Who’s the guest the coursers bring? Who?—’Tis thou, my love! Catherine, tell me now! The dream— Is the dream forgot? Youths may faithful be—who seem Faithless—may they not? When the light of love hath lent Brightness to his eye; When his lips are eloquent;— Timid maid! reply! Open now the temple-gate, Spring on wings of joy elate, Truth, we honour thee! Pour the glass, and join the hymn, Ne’er may days of darkness dim Youth’s fidelity. Thou dost smile, sweet maid! but deem, Deem it worth a thought; For that memorable dream Stores of wisdom brought. Thou dost smile again—but know, It had lessons holy: Fame, it told thee, was but—show; Worldly wisdom—folly. This my song was meant to say, Hope and trust, should guide our way— Maid! there’s no mistaking: This the genuine moral seems, Miseries—are only dreams, Joy—is the awaking. O my Cath’rine! never dwell On that dream of gloom; Heaven! build up her citadel, There may grief ne’er come; Not a cloud her joys o’ershade, Not a joy decay; Holy is that gentle maid As the light of day. Ne’er be it obscur’d by woe, Let her days of comfort flow Like a forest river; And let joy, with smiles serene, Be as it hath ever been, Her bright guide for ever.

To his country’s penates wends Æschines home, To the mist-cover’d land of Alpheus; He long had sought happiness o’er the wide world, But happiness fled—like a shadow. And Bacchus and Venus, and pleasure and fame, His heart had consumed—not contented; The blossom of life had decay’d like his soul, And hope had been banish’d by sadness. The stream of the wavy Alpheus appears, Alpheus, with flower-bedeck’d borders, And wakes all the thoughts of the days hurried by, And of youth-tide, for ever departed! All the banks are as fair, all the fields are as bright, And the sky smiles delighted above him; But where is that hope which shed o’er them a ray, A ray of ineffable beauty? The dwelling of Theon now Æschines seeks;— He dwelt in a peace-girded cottage; His wishes all bounded, and moderate his hopes— He dwelt on the shores of Alpheus. ’Twas just where Alpheus springs into the sea, With olive trees deck’d and plantanas, That Æschines saw a humble abode— It was the mean dwelling of Theon. In the hot arch of Heaven the day-tide declined, The calm stream of waters was glowing; A rosy smile play’d round the humble abode, Where the myrtles of fragrance were blooming. A white grave of marble, with myrtle-wreaths hung, Appears on a gentle mound rising; Where roses of fragrance, and jasmin’s pale flowers, Their branches entwined, interblended. Theon sat near his hut;—he was lost in deep thought, While he look’d on the purple-tinged billow; Then suddenly turn’d on his Æschines—saw, And remember’d his youthful companion. ‘To Zeus—Preserver! be honour and praise! Again dost thou see thy penates!’ Cried Theon—while rapture shone bright in his eye, As he Æschines press’d to his bosom. And with glances look’d through him again and again, His visage was troubled and gloomy: And Æschines mournfully gazed on his friend, His gaze it was calm, but was mournful. ‘O Theon! when first I abandon’d thee here, Hope painted me visions of pleasure; Far different my fate from my dreams—I have found That hope is a faithless deceiver. ‘And tell me, my Theon, has such been thy fate, For such doth thy visage betoken? Have sorrow and sadness intruded on thee, And thy peaceful, domestic penates?’ Theon groan’d in his spirit, and look’d to the grave, ‘These, these are the silent recorders, If God lent us life to be wasted in joy— Ah! life is the sister of sorrow. ‘O no! I complain not of Zeus’ decrees, For life and the world beam with beauty; But bliss that is fleeting, and dreams that are vain, I chase not for earthly enjoyment. ‘What time can create, and what time can destroy, Why call we our own;—it was never;— ’Tis the soul’s own possession, the spirit of love, The thoughts that sublimely transport us. ‘These, these are true bliss!—Friend, this is no dream, I, Æschines! loved and was happy; ’Twas love that refined and enraptured my soul— And that taught me the pleasure of living. ‘Midst twilight sublimest conceptions appear’d, Creation I saw in its glory, And felt that my pilgrimage led through the world To something far brighter above it. ‘Woe is me! for I loved—she is gone—she is gone— And the bliss is for ever departed, That dawn’d with such lustre—how vainly it dawn’d! How gaily—how swiftly it faded! ‘O no! nought erases the track of the past, In the heart it for ever endureth. The sorrow of parting!—That, that too is love!— And the heart loses nought of its treasure. ‘And is not the pang which e’en death leaves behind A germ which hope, bright and eternal, Awakes; while the known, but the mist-cover’d land, Gives back all we loved to our mem’ry. ‘For he who has loved, and loved truly, my friend! Can never, can never be lonely; The world when she blossom’d, with her is still fill’d, Ever present, unchang’d and immortal. ‘Alone I tread onward the path of my doom, To its boundary sublime ever tending; She led me—she leads me—together we toil, ’Tis the bond which not death could dissever. ‘Thoughts pure and sublime throw a charm over life! And with ecstasy oft I look round me On the fair face of earth, that is smiling with good, On the wonderful, glorious creation. ‘And peaceful I turn from the markstone of death To the visions which hail me immortal; And hope lights with glory the dulness of earth, As Aurora the canopied heaven. ‘’Tis hope that exalts me far, far above fate, And hallows this earthly existence; And the thought, the proud thought I am man, swells my breast With gratitude, triumph, and glory. ‘This silent, this mystical gravestone, to me, My friend! is a pledge and a token, That the being which faith has depictured shall dawn As sure as the past is departed. ‘This grave is the door—the lock’d door of delight— Will it open?—I hope, and expect it: On that side the pris’ner is waiting, who here For a moment was seen—and departed. ‘O friend! thou pursuest a false, fleeting good, Thou snatchest the joy of a moment, Thou losest the bliss that is sure and sublime, And a life that is priceless despisest. ‘This feeling of gloom, it benightens the earth— Give your hand!—In the bosom of friendship Let the world, and let nature be lovely again, For, believe me, the earth is most lovely. ‘When life was conferr’d, all, all was conferr’d— ’Tis the path, ’tis the promise of greatness; And sorrow and joy, they are means to that end— Praise Zeus—O praise the Creator!’

Through the dark wood seest thou that thorn-crown’d heap, That o’er the lingering rivulet seems to rest; Where the still stream glides by, as if in sleep, And scarce a leaf is by the zephyr prest: There hangs a harp—a garland, see! That heap—it is a minstrel’s bed: There are his ashes scattered— Bard! woe is thee! His soul was lovely—infant purity Dwelt in his heart—a fleeting pilgrim, driven By life’s first gales o’er seas of misery, Sighing and longing for death’s silent haven— That haven reach’d he speedily: He sleeps death’s sleep—so dark, so dull— His life was short, but sorrowful— Bard! woe is thee! He sang the song of friendship loud and sweet— But ah! the friend is gone;—his holy strain Breathed of pure love—’twas sad, though exquisite, For he knew nought of love but love’s deep pain! All slumbers now—all—silently, Young bard! with thee—thy music’s breath Is still—still’d by the frown of death:— Bard! woe is thee! Here, by this shrine, when the tir’d sun was setting In melancholy brightness, thus he pour’d His farewell hymn, ‘Fair world! thy charms forgetting, ‘I leave thee, and for ever!—I adored ‘A wild dream’s shade—an ecstasy! ‘’Tis past!—Thou lyre! be still—my hand ‘Is chill’d—I seek a brighter land:— ‘Bard! woe is thee! ‘That wild dream fled—what else is left?—the sky ‘O’erclouded—the storm raging—an abyss ‘Yawning around—hopes that just smile, and fly ‘To darkness—solid woes, and shadowy bliss. ‘Haven of peace! for me, for me ‘Prepare thy welcome, grave, whose road, ‘Though misty, leads to joy’s abode! ‘Bard! woe is thee!’ Yes! he is fled—that magic harp is still, His footstep-traces now are worn away; And sorrow dwells on stream, and vale, and hill— And silence, save when thoughtless zephyrs play With the dried wreath that carelessly Hangs—or in twilight’s feeble ray Some spirit bids the harp-strings say, Bard! woe is thee!