THE HORSE
Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed,
Why thy neck so low,
Why thy mane unshaken
Why thy bit not gnawed?
Do I then not fondle thee?
Thy grain to eat art thou not free?
Is not thy harness ornamented,
Is not thy rein of silk,
Is not thy shoe of silver,
Thy stirrup not of gold?
The steed in sorrow answer gives:
Hence am I quiet
Because the distant tramp I hear,
The trumpet’s blow and the arrow’s whizz
And hence I neigh, since in the field
No longer feed I shall,
Nor in beauty live and fondling,
Neither shine with harness bright.
For soon the stem enemy
My harness whole shall take
And the shoes of silver
Tear he shall from feet mine light.
Hence it is that grieves my spirit:
That in place of my chaprak
With thy skin shall cover he
My perspiring sides.
1833
TO A BABE
CHILD, I dare not over thee
Pronounce a blessing;
Thou art of consolation a quiet angel
May then happy be thy lot...
THE POET
ERE the poet summoned is
To Apollo’s holy sacrifice
In the world’s empty cares
Engrossed is half-hearted he.
His holy lyre silent is
And cold sleep his soul locks in;
And of the world’s puny children,
Of all puniest perhaps is he.
Yet no sooner the heavenly word
His keen ear hath reached,
Than up trembles the singer’s soul
Like unto an awakened eagle.
The world’s pastimes him now weary
And mortals’ gossip now he shuns
To the feet of popular idol
His lofty head bends not he.
Wild and stem, rushes he,
Of tumult full and sound,
To the shores of desert wave,
Into the widely-whispering wood.
1827
SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!
POET, not popular applause shalt thou prize!
Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise;
The fool’s judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob’s laughter —
Calm stand, and firm be, and — sober!
Thou art king: live alone. On the free road
Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free:
Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening,
Never reward for noble deeds demanding.
In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art;
Severest judge, thine own works canst measure.
Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman?
Content? Then let the mob scold,
And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire.
Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.
THE THREE SPRINGS
IN the world’s desert, sombre and shoreless
Mysteriously three springs have broken thro’:
Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid;
It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs.
The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspiration
In the world’s deserts its exiles waters;
The last spring — the cold spring of forgetfulness,
Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart’s fire.
1827.
THE TASK
THE longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task.
Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly?
My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand,
My wage in hand, to other task a stranger?
Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine,
Gold Aurora’s friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?
1830.
SLEEPLESSNESS
I CANNOT sleep, I have no light;
Darkness ‘bout me, and sleep is slow;
The beat monotonous alone
Near me of the clock is heard.
Of the Fates the womanish babble,
Of sleeping night the trembling,
Of life the mice-like running-about, —
Why disturbing me art thou?
What art thou, O tedious whisper?
The reproaches, or the murmur
Of the day by me misspent?
What from me wilt thou have?
Art thou calling or prophesying?
Thee I wish to understand,
Thy tongue obscure I study now.
1830.
QUESTIONINGS
USELESS gift, accidental gift,
Life, why given art thou me?
Or, why by fate mysterious
To torture art thou doomed?
Who with hostile power me
Out has called from the nought?
Who my soul with passion thrilled,
Who my spirit with doubt has filled?...
Goal before me there is none,
My heart is hollow, vain my mind
And with sadness wearies me
Noisy life’s monotony.
1828.
CONSOLATION
LIFE, — does it disappoint thee?
Grieve not, nor be angry thou!
In days of sorrow gentle be:
Come shall, believe, the joyful day.
In the future lives the heart:
Is the present sad indeed?
‘T is but a moment, all will pass;
Once in the past, it shall be dear.
1825.
FRIENDSHIP
THUS it ever was and ever will be,
Such of old is the world wide:
The learned are many, the sages few,
Acquaintance many, but not a friend!
FAME
BLESSED who to himself has kept
His creation highest of the soul,
And from his fellows as from the graves
Expected not appreciation!
Blessed he who in silence sang
And the crown of fame not wearing,
By mob despised and forgotten,
Forsaken nameless has the world!
Deceiver greater than dreams of hope,
What is fame? The adorer’s whisper?
Or the boor’s persecution?
Or the rapture of the fool?
AT the gates of Eden a tender angel
With drooping head was shining;
A demon gloomy and rebellious
Over hell’s abyss was flying.
The Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of Doubt
The Spirit of Purity espied;
And a tender warmth unwittingly
Now first to know it learned he.
Adieu, he spake, thee I saw:
Not in vain hast thou shone before me;
Not all in the world have I hated,
Not all in the world have I scorned.
1827.
HOME-SICKNESS
MAYHAP not long am destined I
In exile peaceful to remain,
Of dear days of yore to sigh,
And rustic muse in quiet
With spirit calm to follow.
But even far, in foreign land,
In thought forever roam I shall
Around Trimountain mine:
By meadows, river, by its hills,
By garden, linden nigh the house.
Thus when darkens day the clear,
Alone from depths of grave,
Spirit home-longing
Into the native hall flies
To espy the loved ones with tender glance.
1825.
INSANITY
GOD gran
t I grow not insane:
No, better the stick and beggar’s bag;
No, better toil and hunger bear.
Not that I upon my reason
Such value place; not that I
Would fain not lose it.
If freedom to me they would leave
How I would lasciviously
For the gloomy forest rush!
In hot delirium I would sing
And unconscious would remain
With ravings wondrous and chaotic.
And listen would I to the waves
And gaze I would full of bliss
Into the empty heavens.
And free and strong then would I be
Like a storm the fields updigging,
Forest-trees uprooting.
But here’s the trouble: if crazy once,
A fright thou art like pestilence,
And locked up now shalt thou be.
To a chain thee, fool, they’ll fasten
And through the gate, a circus beast,
Thee to nettle the people come.
And at night not hear shall I
Clear the voice of nightingale
Nor the forest’s hollow sound,
But cries alone of companions mine
And the scolding guards of night
And a whizzing, of chains a ringing.
1833
DEATH-THOUGHTS
WHETHER I roam along the noisy streets
Whether I enter the peopled temple,
Whether I sit by thoughtless youth,
Haunt my thoughts me everywhere.
I — say, Swiftly go the years by:
However great our number now,
Must all descend the eternal vaults, —
Already struck has some one’s hour.
And if I gaze upon the lonely oak
I — think: the patriarch of the woods
Will survive my passing age
As he survived my father’s age.
And if a tender babe I fondle
Already I mutter, Fare thee well!
I — yield my place to thee. For me
‘T is time to decay, to bloom for thee
Every year thus, every day
With death my thought I join
Of coming death the day
I seek among them to divine.
Where will Fortune send me death?
In battle? In wanderings, or on the waves?
Or shall the valley neighboring
Receive my chilled dust?
But tho’ the unfeeling body
Can everywhere alike decay,
Still I, my birthland nigh
Would have my body lie.
Let near the entrance to my grave
Cheerful youth be in play engaged,
And let indifferent creation
With beauty shine there eternally.
1829.
RIGHTS
NOT dear I prize high-sounding rights
By which is turned more head than one;
Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to me
The blessed lot of discussing fates,
Of hindering kings from fighting one another;
And little care I whether free the press is.
All this you see are words, words, words
Other, better rights, dear to me are;
Other, better freedom is my need....
To depend on rulers, or the mob —
Is not all the same it? God be with them!
To give account to none; to thyself alone
To serve and please; for power, for a livery
Nor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend:
Now here, now there to roam in freedom
Nature’s beauties divine admiring,
And before creations of art and inspiration
Melt silently in tender ecstasy —
This is bliss, these are rights!...
THE GYPSIES
OVER the wooded banks,
In the hour of evening quiet,
Under the tents are song and bustle
And the fires are scattered.
Thee I greet, O happy race!
I recognize thy blazes,
I — myself at other times
These tents would have followed.
With the early rays to-morrow
Shall disappear your freedom’s trace,
Go you will — but not with you
Longer go shall the bard of you.
He alas, the changing lodgings,
And the pranks of days of yore
Has forgot for rural comforts
And for the quiet of a home.
THE DELIBASH
CROSS-FIRING behind the hills:
Both camps watch, theirs and ours;
In front of Cossaks on the hill
Dashes ‘long brave Delibash
O Delibash, not to the line come nigh,
Do have mercy on thy life;
Quick ‘t is over with thy frolic bold,
Pierced thou by the spear shalt be
Hey, Cossak, not to battle rush
The Delibash is swift as wind;
Cut he will with crooked sabre
From thy shoulders thy fearless head.
They rush with yell: are hand to hand;
And behold now what each befalls:
Already speared the Delibash is
Already headless the Cossak is!
HYMN TO FORCE
I am eternal!
I throb through the ages;
I am the Master
Of each of Life’s stages.
I quicken the blood
Of the mate-craving lover;
The age-frozen heart
With daisies I cover.
Down through the ether
I hurl constellations;
Up from their earth-bed
I wake the carnations.
I laugh in the flame
As I kindle and fan it;
I crawl in the worm;
I leap in the planet.
Forth from its cradle
I pilot the river;
In lightning and earthquake
I flash and I quiver.
My breath is the wind;
My bosom the ocean;
My form’s undefined;
My essence is motion.
The braggarts of science
Would weigh and divide me;
Their wisdom evading,
I vanish and hide me.
My glances are rays
From stars emanating;
My voice through the spheres
Is sound, undulating.
I am the monarch
Uniting all matter:
The atoms I gather;
The atoms I scatter.
I pulse with the tides —
Now hither, now thither;
I grant the tree sap;
I bid the bud wither.
I always am present,
Yet nothing can bind me;
Like thought evanescent,
They lose me who find me.
THE BLACK SHAWL
I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.
When young I was and full of trust
I passionately loved a young Greek girl.
The charming maid, she fondled me,
But soon I lived the black day to see.
Once as were gathered my jolly guests,
A detested Jew knocked at my door.
Thou art feasting, he whispered, with friends,
But betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid.
Moneys I gave him and curses,
And called my servant, the faithful.
We went; I flew on the wings of my steed,
And tender mercy was silent in me.
Her threshold no sooner I espied,
Dark grew my eyes, and my strength departed.
The distant chamber I enter alone —
An Armenian embraces
my faithless maid.
Darkness around me: flashed the dagger;
To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time.
And long I trampled the headless corpse, —
And silent and pale at the maid I stared.
I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,
But perished the girl, and with her my love.
The shawl I took from the head now dead,
And wiped in silence the bleeding steel.
When came the darkness of eve, my serf
Threw their bodies into the billows of the Danube.
Since then I kiss no charming eyes,
Since then I know no cheerful days.
I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.
THE OUTCAST
On a rainy autumn evening
Into desert places went a maid;
And the secret fruit of unhappy love
In her trembling hands she held.
All was still: the woods and the hills
Asleep in the darkness of the night;
And her searching glances
In terror about she cast.
And on this babe, the innocent,
Her glance she paused with a sigh:
“Asleep thou art, my child, my grief,
Thou knowest not my sadness.
Thine eyes will ope, and though with longing,
To my breast shalt no more cling.
No kiss for thee to-morrow
From thine unhappy mother.
Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,
My everlasting shame, my guilt!
Me forget thou shalt for aye,
But thee forget shall not I;
Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers;
Who’ll say: Thou art none of ours!
Thou wilt ask: Where are my parents?
But for thee no kin is found.
Hapless one! with heart filled with sorrow,
Lonely amid thy mates,
Thy spirit sullen to the end
Thou shalt behold the fondling mothers.
A lonely wanderer everywhere,
Cursing thy fate at all times,
Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear …
Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!
Asleep! let me then, O hapless one,
To my bosom press thee once for all;
A law unjust and terrible
Thee and me to sorrow dooms.
While the years have not yet chased
The guiltless joy of thy days,
Sleep, my darling; let no bitter griefs
Mar thy childhood’s quiet life!”
But lo, behind the woods, near by,
The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection) Page 5