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POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER PUSHKIN 
 
 Cranslatetr from t$e З&иш'ап, foitf) Enttotmctton anti Notes 
 By IVAN PANIN 
 
 n* ФІ!Ь ^^** 3 ^" 
 
 BOSTON 
 CUPPLES AND HURD 
 
 94 Boylston Street 
 
 1888 
 
 ■M 
 
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 Copyright, і888, 
 By Ivan Panin. 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
то 
 MRS. JOHN L. GARDNER, 
 
 WHO WAS THE FIRST TO RECOGNIZE HELPFULLY 
 
 WHATEVER MERIT THERE IS IN 
 
 THIS BOOK. 
 
 J 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE 9 
 
 EutroTmctfou. 
 
 I. Poetic Ideal 15 
 
 II. Inner Life . 28 
 
 III. General Characteristics 38 
 
 ^utobtofltapjjtcal JPoerns* 
 
 Mon Portrait 59 
 
 My Pedigree 61 
 
 My Monument 64 
 
 My Muse 66 
 
 My Demon 67 
 
 Regret 69 
 
 Reminiscence 70 
 
 Elegy 72 
 
 Resurrection 73 
 
 The Prophet 74 
 
 Xatrattbe $oems* 
 
 The Outcast 79 
 
 The Black Shawl 82 
 
 The Roussalka 84 
 
 The Cossak 87 
 
 The Drowned 90 
 
Contents. 
 $oems of Nature» 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Birdlet 97 
 
 The Cloud 98 
 
 The North Wind 99 
 
 Winter Morning 100 
 
 Winter Evening 102 
 
 The Winter-Road , 104 
 
 Poems of ILobe* 
 
 The Storm-Maid 109 
 
 The Bard no 
 
 Spanish Love-Song . in 
 
 Love 113 
 
 Jealousy 114 
 
 In an Album 116 
 
 The Awaking 117 
 
 Elegy 119 
 
 First Love 120 
 
 Elegy 121 
 
 The Burnt Letter 122 
 
 "Sing not, Beauty" 123 
 
 Signs 124 
 
 A Presentiment 125 
 
 " In Vain, Dear Friend " 127 
 
 Love's Debt 128 
 
 Invocation 130 
 
 Elegy 132 
 
 Sorrow 133 
 
 Despair 134 
 
 A Wish 135 
 
 Resigned Love 136 
 
 Love and Freedom 137 
 
Contents. 7 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Not at All . 138 
 
 Inspiring Love 139 
 
 Thb Graces 141 
 
 |&tsceliatmus ^ozra^ 
 
 The Birdlet 145 
 
 The Nightingale . . 146 
 
 The Floweret 147 
 
 The Horse 148 
 
 To a Babe 150 
 
 The Poet 151 
 
 To the Poet. . . « 153 
 
 The Three Springs 154 
 
 The Task 155 
 
 Sleeplessness 156 
 
 Questionings 157 
 
 Consolation 158 
 
 Friendship 159 
 
 Fame 160 
 
 The Angel 161 
 
 Home-sickness . 162 
 
 Insanity 163 
 
 Death-Thoughts 165 
 
 Rights 167 
 
 The Gypsies 168 
 
 The Delibash 169 
 
 NOTES 
 
 171 
 
Preface : Bibliographical* 
 
 i. The text I have used for the following translations is 
 that of the edition of the complete works of Pushkin in 
 ten volumes, i6mo., by Suvorin, St. Petersburg, 1887. The 
 poems form Volumes III. and IV. of that edition. Accord- 
 ingly, I have designated after each heading, volume, and 
 page where the poem is to be found in the original. Thus, 
 for example, "My Muse, iv. 1," means that this poem is 
 found in Volume IV. of the above edition, page 1. 
 
 2. I have translated Pushkin literally word for word, 
 line for line. I do not believe there are as many as five 
 examples of deviation from the literalness of the text. 
 Once only, I believe, have I transposed two lines for con- 
 venience of translation ; the other deviations are {if they 
 are such) a substitution of an and for a comma in order 
 to make now and then the reading of a line musical. With 
 these exceptions, I have sacrified everything to faithful- 
 ness of rendering. My object was to make Pushkin him- 
 self, without a prompter, speak to English readers. To 
 make him thus speak in a foreign tongue was indeed 
 to place him at a disadvantage ; and music and rhythm 
 and harmony are indeed fine things, but truth is finer still. 
 I wished to present not what Pushkin would have said, or 
 
і о Preface : Bibliographical. 
 
 should have said, if he had written in English, but what 
 he does say in Russian. That, stripped from all ornament 
 of his wonderful melody and grace of form, as he is in a 
 translation, he still, even in the hard English tongue, 
 soothes and stirs, is in itself a sign that through the in- 
 dividual soul of Pushkin sings that universal soul whose 
 strains appeal forever to man, in whatever clime, under 
 whatever sky. 
 
 3. I ask, therefore, no forgiveness, no indulgence even, 
 from the reader for the crudeness and even harshness 
 of the translation, which, I dare say, will be found in 
 abundance by those who look for something to blame. 
 Nothing of the kind is necessary. I have done the only 
 thing there was to be done. Nothing more could be done 
 (I mean by me, of course), and if critics still demand more, 
 they must settle it not with me, but with the Lord Al- 
 mighty, who in his grim, yet arch way, long before critics 
 appeared on the stage, hath ordained that it shall be 
 impossible for a thing to be and not to be at the same 
 time. 
 
 4. I have therefore tried neither for measure nor for 
 rhyme. What I have done was this : I first translated 
 each line word for word, and then by reading it aloud let 
 mine ear arrange for me the words in such a way as to 
 make some kind of rhythm. Where this could be done, I 
 was indeed glad ; where this could not be done, I was not 
 sorry. It is idle to regret the impossible. 
 
 5. That the reader, however, may see for himself what 
 he has been spared by my abstinence from attempting the 
 impossible, I give one stanza of a metrical translation by 
 the side of the literal rendering : — 
 
Preface: Bibliographical. и 
 
 Literal : The moment wondrous I remember 
 Thou before me didst appear, 
 Like a flashing apparition, 
 Like a spirit of beauty pure. 
 
 Metrical : * Yes ! I remember well our meeting, 
 
 When first thou dawnedst on my sight, 
 Like some fair phantom past me fleeting, 
 Some nymph of purity and light. 
 
 Observe, Pushkin the real does not appear before the 
 reader with a solemn affirmation, Yes, or No, nor that he 
 remembers it well. He tells the story in such a way that 
 the reader knows without being told that he does in- 
 deed remember it well! Nor does he weaken the effect 
 by saying that he remembers the meeting, which is too 
 extended, but the moment, which is concentrated. And 
 Pushkin's imagination was moreover too pure to let a 
 fleeting phantom dawn upon his sight. To have tried 
 for a rendering which necessitated from its very limita- 
 tions such falsities, would have been not only to libel poor 
 Pushkin, but also to give the reader poor poetry besides. 
 
 6. The translation being literal, I have been able to 
 retain even the punctuation of Pushkin, and especially his 
 dots, of which he makes such frequent use. They are part 
 of his art ; they express by what they withhold. I call espe- 
 cial attention to these, as Pushkin is as powerful in what 
 he indicates as in what he shows, in what he suggests 
 as in what he actually says. The finest example of the 
 highest poetry of his silence (indicated by his dots) is the 
 poem I have entitled " Jealousy," to which the reader is 
 particularly requested to turn with this commentary of 
 mine (p. 114 ). The poet is melted with tenderness at the 
 1 Blackwood's Magazine, lviii. 35, July 3 1845. 
 
12 Preface: Bibliographical. 
 
 thought of his beloved all alone, far-off, weeping. The 
 fiendish doubt suddenly overpowers him, that after all, 
 perhaps his beloved is at that moment not alone, weeping 
 for him, but in the arms of another : — 
 
 Alone ... to lips of none she is yielding 
 
 Her shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers. 
 
 None is worthy of her heavenly love. 
 
 Is it not so ? Thou art alone. . . . Thou weepest. . . . 
 
 And I at peace ? 
 
 But if 
 
 One must be all vibration in order to appreciate the 
 matchless power of the dots here. The poem here ends. 
 I know not the like of this in all literature. 
 
 7. Wherever I could ascertain the date of a poem, I have 
 placed it at the end. The reader will thus at a glance find 
 at least one of the proper relations of the poems to the 
 poet's soul. For this purpose these two dates should be 
 borne constantly in mind : Pushkin was born in 1 799 ; he 
 died in 1837. 
 
 8. To many of his poems Pushkin has given no name. 
 To such, for the reader's convenience I have supplied 
 names, but have put them in brackets, which accordingly 
 are to be taken as indication that the name they enclose is 
 not Pushkin's. Many of his most beautiful poems were 
 addressed to individuals, and they appear in the original 
 as " Lines to ." The gem of this collection, for in- 
 stance, to which I have supplied the title, "Inspiring 
 Love " — inadequate enough, alas ! — appears in the origi- 
 nal as " To A. P. Kern." As none of these poems have 
 
Preface: Bibliographical. 13 
 
 any intrinsic bond with the personages addressed, their 
 very greatness lying in their universality, I have supplied 
 my own titles to such pieces, giving the original title in a 
 note. 
 
 9. It was my original intention to make a life of the 
 poet part of this volume. But so varied was Pushkin's 
 life, and so instructive withal, that only an extended ac- 
 count could be of value. What is worth doing at all is 
 worth doing well. A mere sketch would here, for various 
 reasons, be worse than useless. Critics, who always know 
 better what an author ought to do than he himself, must 
 kindly take this assertion of mine, for the present at least, 
 on trust, and assume that I, who have done some thinking 
 on the subject, am likely to know whereof I speak better 
 than those whose only claim to an opinion is that they have 
 done no thinking on the subject, resembling in this respect 
 our modest friends, the agnostics, who set themselves up 
 as the true, knowing solvers of the problems of life, be- 
 cause, forsooth, they know nothing. . . . Anyhow, even at 
 the risk of offending critics, I have decided to misstate my- 
 self by not giving the life of Pushkin rather than to mis- 
 state poor Pushkin by giving an attenuated, vapid thing, 
 which passes under the name of a " Sketch." The world 
 judges a man by what is known of him, forgetting that 
 underneath the thin film of the known lies the immeasur- 
 able abyss of the unknown, and that the true explanation 
 of the man is found not in what is visible of him, but in 
 what is invisible of him. Unless, therefore, I could pre- 
 sent what is known of Pushkin in such a manner as to 
 suggest the unknown (just as a study of nature should 
 only help us to trust that what we do not know of God is 
 
14 Preface: Bibliographical. 
 
 likewise good !) I have no business to tell of his life. But 
 to tell of it in such a way that it shall represent Pushkin, 
 and not misrepresent him, is possible only in an extended 
 life. Otherwise, I should be telling not how he was living, 
 but how he was starving, dying ; and this is not an edify- 
 ing task, either for the writer or for the reader. 
 
 io. Such a life is now well-nigh writ, but it is too long 
 to make part of this volume. 
 
Introtmctiotu Critical 
 
 I. POETIC IDEAL. 
 
 i. Pushkin was emphatically a subjective 
 writer. Of intense sensibility, which is the 
 indispensable condition of creative genius, he 
 was first of all a feeler with an Л^оііап attach- 
 ment. He did not even have to take the trouble 
 of looking into his heart in order to write. So 
 full of feeling was his heart that at the slightest 
 vibration it poured itself out ; and so deep was 
 its feeling that what is poured out is already 
 melted, fused, shaped, and his poems come 
 forth, like Minerva from Jupiter's head, fully 
 armed. There is a perfection about them 
 which is self-attesting in its unstudiedness and 
 artlessness ; it is the perfection of the child, 
 touching the hearts of its beholders all the 
 more tenderly because of its unconsciousness, 
 effortlessness ; it is the perfection which Jesus 
 had in mind when he uttered that sentence so 
 profound and so little followed because of its 
 
1 6 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 very profundity : " Unless ye be like little chil- 
 dren." So calm and poiseful is Pushkin's poetry 
 that in spite of all his pathos his soul is a work 
 of architecture, — a piece of frozen music in 
 the highest sense. Even through his bitterest 
 agony, — and pathos is the one chord which is 
 never absent from Pushkin's song, as it is ever 
 present in Chopin's strains, ay, as it ever must 
 be present in any soul that truly lives, — there 
 runneth a peace, a simplicity which makes 
 the reader exclaim on reading him : Why, I 
 could have done the self-same thing myself, — 
 an observation which is made at the sight of 
 Raphael's Madonna, at the oratory of a Phil- 
 lips, at the reading of " The Vicar of Wakefield," 
 at the acting of a Booth. Such art is of the 
 highest, and is reached only through one road: 
 Spontaneity, complete abandonment of self. 
 The verse I have to think over I had better not 
 write. Man is to become only a pipe through 
 which the Spirit shall flow; and the Spirit shall 
 flow only where the resistance is least. Ope 
 the door, and the god shall enter ! Seek not, 
 pray not ! To pray is to will, and to will is to 
 obstruct. The virtue which Emerson praises 
 so highly in a pipe — that it is smooth and 
 hollow — is the very virtue which makes him 
 like Nature, an ever open, yet ever sealed book. 
 
Introduction : Critical. /7 
 
 Bring to him your theories, your preconceived 
 notions, and Emerson, like the great soul of 
 which he is but a voice, becomes unintelligible, 
 confusing, chaotic. The words are there ; the 
 eyes see them. The dictionary is at hand, but 
 nought avails ; of understanding there is none 
 to be had. But once abandon will, once aban- 
 don self, once abandon opinion (a much harder 
 abandonment this than either!), and Emerson is 
 made of glass, just as when I abandon my logic, 
 God becomes transparent enough. . . . And 
 what is true of Emerson is true of every great 
 soul. 
 
 2. The highest art then is artlessness, un- 
 consciousness. The true artist is not the con- 
 ceiver, the designer, the executor, but the tool, 
 the recorder, the reporter. He writes because 
 write he must, just as he breathes because 
 breathe he must. And here too, Nature, as 
 elsewhere, hath indicated the true method. 
 The most vital processes of life are not the 
 voluntary, the conscious, but the involuntary, 
 the unconscious. The blood circulates, the 
 heart beats, the lungs fill, the nerves vibrate; 
 we digest, we fall asleep, we are stirred with 
 love, with awe, with reverence, without our 
 will; and our highest aspirations, our sweetest 
 memories, our cheerfullest hopes, and alas ! 
 
/5 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 also our bitterest self-reproaches, come ever 
 like friends at the feast, — uninvited. You can 
 be happy, blest at will ? Believe it not ! Hap- 
 piness, blessedness willed is not to be had in 
 the market at any quotation. It is not to be 
 got. It comes. And it comes when least 
 willed. He is truly rich who has nought left to 
 be deprived of, nought left to ask for, nought 
 left to will. . . . 
 
 3. Pushkin, therefore, was incapable of giv- 
 ing an account of his own poetry. Pushkin 
 could not have given a theory of a single poem 
 of his, as Рое has given of his " Raven." Poe's 
 account of the birth of " The Raven " is indeed 
 most delightful reading. " I told you so," is 
 not so much the voice of conceit, of " I knew 
 better than thou ! " but the voice of the epicu- 
 rean in us ; it is ever a delight to most of us to 
 discover after the event that we knew it all 
 before. . . . Delightful, then, it is indeed, to 
 read Poe's theory of his own " Raven : " but its 
 most delightful part is that the theory is a 
 greater fiction than the poem itself. It is the 
 poem that has created the theory, not the 
 theory the poem. Neither could Pushkin do 
 what Schiller has done : give a theory of a 
 drama of his own. The theory of Don Karlos 
 as developed in Schiller's letters on that play 
 
Introduction: Critical. ig 
 
 are writ not by Friedrich Schiller the poet, 
 the darling of the German land, the inspirer of 
 the youth of all lands, but by Herr von Schiller 
 the professor; by Von Schiller the Kantian 
 metaphysician ; by Von Schiller the critic ; by 
 another Schiller, in short. Pushkin, however, 
 unlike most of us, was not half a dozen ances- 
 tors — God, beast, sage, fool — rolled into one, 
 each for a time claiming him as his own. Push- 
 kin was essentially a unit, one voice ; he was a 
 lyre, on which a something, not he — God ! — 
 invisibly played. 
 
 4. And this he unconsciously to himself ex- 
 presses in the piece, " My Muse." 
 
 " From morn till night in oak's dumb shadow 
 To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened; 
 And with sparing reward me gladdening, 
 Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear, 
 From my hands the flute herself she took. 
 Now filled the wood was with breath divine 
 And the heart with holy enchantment filled." 
 
 Before these lines Byelinsky, the great Russian 
 critic, stands awe-struck. And well he may; 
 for in the Russian such softness, smoothness, 
 simplicity, harmony, and above all sincerity, 
 had not been seen before Pushkin's day. And 
 though in the translation everything except the 
 thought is lost, I too as I now read it over on 
 this blessed Sunday morn (and the bell calling 
 
20 Introduction: Critical. 
 
 men unto the worship of the great God is still 
 ringing !), I too feel that even before this sun, 
 shorn of its beams though it be, I am still in 
 hallowed presence. For the spirit is inde- 
 pendent of tongue, independent of form ; to the 
 god-filled soul the leaf is no less beautiful than 
 the flower. Discrimination, distinction, is only 
 a sign that we are still detached from the 
 whole ; that we are still only half\ that we are 
 still not our own selves, — that we still, in 
 short, miss the blessed One. To the god-filled 
 soul the grain of sand is no less beautiful than 
 the diamond ; the spirit breaks through the 
 crust (and words and forms are, alas, only 
 this !), and recognizes what is its where'er it 
 finds it, under whatever disguise. The bot- 
 anist prizes the weed as highly as the flower, 
 and with justice, because he seeks not the grat- 
 ification of the eye, but of the spirit. The eye 
 is delighted with variety, the spirit with unity. 
 And the botanist seeks the unity, the whole, 
 the godful in the plant. And a fine perception 
 it was, — that of Emerson : that a tree is but a 
 rooted man, a horse a running man, a fish a 
 floating man, and a bird a flying man. Logical, 
 practical Supreme Court Justice, with one eye 
 in the back of his head, declares, indeed, such 
 utterance insane, and scornfully laughs, " I 
 
Introduction : Critical. 21 
 
 don't read Emerson ; my garls do ! " * but the 
 self -same decade brings a Darwin or a Heckel 
 with his comparative embryos ; and at the sight 
 of these, not even a lawyer, be he even Chief 
 Justice of Supreme Court, can distinguish be- 
 tween snake, fowl, dog, and man. 
 
 5. In time, however, Pushkin does become 
 objective to himself, as any true soul that 
 is obliged to reflect must sooner or later ; and 
 God ever sees to it that the soul be obliged to 
 reflect if there be aught within. For it is the 
 essence of man's life that the soul struggle ; it 
 is the essence of growth that \tpush upward; it 
 is the essence of progress in walking that we 
 fall forward. Life is a battle, — battle with the 
 powers of darkness ; battle with the diseases 
 of doubt, despair, self-will. And reflection is 
 the symptom that the disease is on the soul, 
 that the battle is to go on. 
 
 6. Pushkin then does become in time ob- 
 jective, and contemplates himself. Pushkin 
 the man inspects Pushkin the soul, and in the 
 poem, " My Monument," he gives his own esti- 
 mate of himself : — 
 
 " A monument not hand-made I have for me erected ; 
 The path to it well-trodden, will not overgrow ; 
 Risen higher has it with unbending head 
 Than the monument of Alexander. 
 1 Jeremiah Mason. 
 
22 Introduction: Critical. 
 
 No ! not all of me shall die ! my soul in hallowed lyre 
 Shall my dust survive, and escape destruction — 
 And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sublunar 
 One bard at least living shall remain. 
 
 " My name will travel over the whole of Russia great 
 And there pronounce my name shall every living tongue : 
 
 And long to the nation I shall be dear." 
 
 Observe here the native nobility of the man. 
 There is a heroic consciousness of his own 
 worth which puts to shame all gabble of con- 
 ceit and of self-consciousness being a vice, 
 being immodest. Here too, Emerson sets fine 
 example in not hesitating to speak of his own 
 essays on Love and Friendship as "those fine 
 lyric strains," needing some balance by coarser 
 tones on Prudence and the like. This is the 
 same heroic consciousness of one's own worth 
 which makes a Socrates propose as true reward 
 for his services to the State, free entertainment 
 at the Prytaneum. This is the same manli- 
 ness which in a Napoleon rebukes the gen- 
 ealogy-monger who makes him descend from 
 Charlemagne, with the remark, " I am my own 
 pedigree." This, in fine, is the same manliness 
 which made Jesus declare boldly, " I am the 
 Way, I am the Life, I am the Light," regardless 
 of the danger that the " Jerusalem Advertiser " 
 and the " Zion Nation " might brand him as " de- 
 
Introduction : Critical. 2) 
 
 liciously conceited." This recognition of one's 
 own worth is at bottom the highest reverence 
 before God ; inasmuch as I esteem myself, not 
 because of my body, which I have in common 
 with the brutes, but because of my spirit, which 
 I have in common with God; and wise men 
 have ever sung, on hearing their own merit ex- 
 tolled, Not unto us, not unto us ! There is no 
 merit in the matter ; the God is either there or 
 he is not. . . . 
 
 7. Pushkin, then, even with this in view, is 
 not so much a conscious will, as an unconscious 
 voice. He is not so much an individual singer, 
 as a strain from the music of the spheres ; and 
 he is a person, an original voice, only in so far 
 as he has hitched his wagon to a star. In 
 his abandonment is his greatness ; in his self- 
 destruction, his strength. 
 
 " The bidding of God, О Muse, obey. 
 Fear not insult, ask not crown : 
 Praise and blame take with indifference 
 And dispute not with the fool ! " 
 
 " And dispute not with the fool ! " The prophet 
 never argues ; it is for him only to affirm. Ar- 
 gument is at bottom only a lack of trust in my 
 own truth. Caesar's wife must be above sus- 
 picion ; and to bear misunderstanding in si- 
 lence, — this is to be great. Hence the noblest 
 
24 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 moment in Kepler's life was not when he dis- 
 covered the planet, but when he discovered 
 that if God could wait six thousand years for 
 the understanding by man of one of his starlets, 
 he surely could wait a few brief years for his 
 recognition by his fellow-men. God is the great 
 misunderstood, and he — never argues. In 
 living out my truth in silence, without argument 
 even though misunderstood, I not only show 
 my faith in it, but prove it by my very strength. 
 If I am understood, nothing more need be said ; 
 if I am not understood, nothing more can be 
 said. Pushkin, therefore, often weeps, sobs, 
 groans. He at times even searches, questions, 
 doubts, despairs ; but he never argues. Broad 
 is the back of Pegasus, and strong is his wing, 
 but neither his back nor his wings shall enable 
 him to float the rhyming arguer. No sooner 
 does the logician mount the heavenly steed 
 than its wings droop, and both rider and steed 
 quickly drop into the limbo of inanity. Mel- 
 ancholy, indeed, is the sight of a dandy dressed 
 for a party unexpectedly drenched by the 
 shower; sorrowful is the sight of statesman 
 turned politician before election ; and pitiful is 
 the spectacle of the manufacturing versifier, who 
 grinds out of himself his daily task of one hun- 
 dred lines, as the milkman squeezes out his 
 
Introduction : Critical. 25 
 
 daily can of milk from the cow. But most 
 pitiful of all, immeasurably pathetic to me, 
 is the sight of pettifogging logician forsaking 
 his hair-splitting world, and betaking himself to 
 somersaulting verse. To much the bard is in- 
 deed called, but surely not to that. . . . 
 
 8. To affirm then the bard is called, and 
 what in "My Monument" is but hinted, be- 
 comes clear, emphatic utterance in Pushkin's 
 "Sonnet to the Poet." 
 
 " Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize ! 
 Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise ; 
 The fool's judgment thou shalt hear, 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, О 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." 
 
 But because the bard is called to affirm, to in- 
 spire, to serve, he is also called to be worn. To 
 become the beautiful image, the marble must 
 be lopped and cut ; the vine to bear sweeter 
 
2б Introduction : Critical. 
 
 fruit must be trimmed, and the soul must go 
 through a baptism of fire. . . . Growth, prog- 
 ress is thus ever the casting off of an old self, 
 and Scheiden thut weh. Detachment hurts. A 
 new birth can take place only amid throes of 
 agony. Hence the following lines of Pushkin 
 on the poet : — 
 
 "... No sooner the heavenly word 
 His keen ear hath reached, 
 Then up trembles the singer's soul 
 Like an awakened eagle. 
 
 " The world's pastimes now weary him 
 And mortals' gossip now he shuns. 
 
 Wild and stern rushes he 
 Of tumult full and sound 
 To the shores of desert wave 
 Into the wildly whispering wood." 
 
 9. This is as yet only discernment that the 
 bard must needs suffer ; by-and-by comes also 
 the fulfilment, the recognition of the wisdom of 
 the sorrow, and with it its joyful acceptance in 
 the poem of " The Prophet." 
 
 " And out he tore my sinful tongue 
 
 And ope he cut with sword my breast 
 And out he took my trembling heart 
 And a coal with gleaming blaze 
 Into the opened breast he shoved. 
 
Introduction : Critical. 27 
 
 Like a corpse I lay in the desert. 
 
 And God's Voice unto me called : 
 
 Arise, О prophet, and listen, and guide. 
 
 Be thou filled with my will 
 
 And going over land and sea 
 
 Fire with the word the hearts of men ! " 
 
 " Be thou filled with my will ! " His ideal 
 began with abandonment of self-will ; it ended 
 with complete surrender of self-will. When we 
 have done all the thinking and planning and 
 weighing, and pride ourselves upon our wis- 
 dom, we are not yet wise. One more step re- 
 mains to be taken, without which we only may 
 avoid the wrong ; with which, however, we 
 shall surely come upon the right. We must 
 still say, Teach us, Thou, to merge our will 
 in Thine. . . . 
 
28 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 II. INNER LIFE. 
 
 io. I have already stated that Pushkin is a 
 subjective writer. The great feelers must ever 
 be thus, just as the great reasoners must ever 
 be objective, just as the great lookers can only 
 be objective. For the eye looks only on the 
 outward thing ; the reason looks only upon the 
 outward effect, the consequence ; but the heart 
 looks not only upon the thing, but upon its re- 
 flection upon self, — upon its moral relation, in 
 short. Hence the subjectivity of a Tolstoy, a 
 Byron, a Rousseau, a Jean Paul, a Goethe, who 
 does not become objective until he has ceased 
 to be a feeler, and becomes the comprehender, 
 the understander, the seer, the poised Goethe. 
 Marcus Aurelius, Pascal, Amiel, look into their 
 hearts and write ; and Carlyle and Ruskin, 
 even though the former use " Thou " instead 
 of " I," travel they never so far, still find their 
 old " I " smiling by their side. But the subjec- 
 tivity of Pushkin, unlike that of Walt Whitman, 
 is not only not intrusive, but it is even delight- 
 giving, — for it paints not the Pushkin that is 
 
Introduction : Critical. 2g 
 
 different from all other men, but the Pushkin 
 that is in fellowship with all other men; he 
 therefore, in reporting himself, voices the very 
 experience of his fellows, who, though feeling 
 it deeply, were yet unable to give it tongue. It 
 is this which makes Pushkin the poet in its 
 original sense, — the maker, the sayer, the 
 namer. And herein is his greatness, — in ex- 
 pressing not what is his, in so far that it is dif- 
 ferent from what is other men's, but what is 
 his, because it is other men's likewise. Herein 
 he is what makes him a man of genius. For 
 what does a genius do? 
 
 it. What is it that makes the water, when 
 spouting forth in a smooth stream from the 
 hose, such a power ? What is it that makes 
 the beauty of the stem and curve of the body 
 of water, as it leaps out of the fountain ? It is 
 the same water which a few yards back we can 
 see flowing aimless in stream or pond. Yes, 
 but it is the concentration of the loose elements 
 into harmonious shape, whether for utility, as 
 in the case of the hose-spout, or for beauty, 
 as in the case of the fountain. Nought new is 
 added to the mass existing before. This is pre- 
 cisely the case of genius. He adds nought to 
 what has gone before him. He merely arranges, 
 formulates. A vast unorganized mass of in- 
 
jo Introduction : Critical. 
 
 telligence, of aspiration, of feeling, becomes 
 diffused over mankind. Soon it seeks organ- 
 ization. The poet, the prophet, the seer, com- 
 eth, and lo, he becomes the magnet round 
 which all spiritual force of the time groups it- 
 self in visible shape, in formulated language. 
 
 12. Pushkin, then, is self-centred; but it is 
 the self that is not Pushkin, but man. His mood 
 is others' mood ; and in singing of his life, he 
 sings of the life of all men. The demon he 
 sings of in the poem called " My Demon " is 
 not so much his demon alone as also yours, 
 mine, ours. It is his demon because it is all 
 men's demon. 
 
 " A certain evil spirit then 
 Began in secret me to visit. 
 Grievous were our meetings, 
 His smile, and his wonderful glance, 
 His speeches, these so stinging, 
 Cold poison poured into my soul. 
 Providence with slander 
 Inexhaustible he tempted ; 
 Of Beauty as a dream he spake 
 And inspiration he despised ; 
 Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, 
 On life with scorn he looked — 
 And nought in all nature 
 To bless he ever wished." 
 
 And this demon — "the Spirit of Denial, the 
 Spirit of Doubt " — of which he sings after- 
 
Introduction : Critical. 5/ 
 
 wards so pathetically tormented him long. He 
 began with " Questionings : " — 
 
 " Useless gift, accidental gift, 
 Life, why art thou given me ? 
 Or, why by fate mysterious 
 To torture art thou doomed ? 
 
 11 Who with hostile power me 
 Out has called from the nought ? 
 Who my soul with passion thrilled, 
 Who my spirit with doubt has filled? ..." 
 
 And he continues with " 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, О 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." 
 
 13. And this demon gives him no rest, 
 even long after he had found the answer, — 
 that the meaning of Life is in Work, Solve 
 the problem of life? Live, and you solve 
 it; and to live means to do. But that work 
 
$2 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 was the solution of the problem of life he 
 indeed discerned but vaguely. It was with 
 him not yet conscious fulfilment. He had 
 not yet formulated to himself the gospel he 
 unconsciously obeyed. Hence the wavering 
 of 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 ? " 
 
 14. And for the same reason, when he had 
 ceased to be a roamer and at last settled down 
 to quiet home-life, the memory of the days of 
 yore still gives him a pang ; and at the sight of 
 the gypsies, whose free and easy life once occu- 
 pied his thoughts seriously, not only to sing of 
 them, but to live with them, only a plaintive 
 note bursts forth from his soul : — 
 
 " Thee I greet, О 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. 
 
Introduction : Critical. 33 
 
 11 He alas, the changing lodgings, 
 And the pranks of days of yore 
 Has forgot for rural comforts 
 And for the quiet of a home." 
 
 15. And this too when these same "rural 
 comforts " he now regrets to have taken in 
 exchange for his wanderings were the very 
 circumstances he sighed for when he did lead 
 the free life he now envies the gypsies for. 
 For this is what he then had been singing: 
 
 " 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 pursue- 
 
 u But even far, in a foreign land 
 In thought forever roam I shall 
 Around Trimountain mine : 
 By meadows, river, by its hills, 
 By garden, linden, nigh the house." 
 
 16. No wonder, therefore, that the demon, hav- 
 ing unsettled the poet's soul with restlessness, 
 should now unsettle his reasoning powers with 
 regrets. For regret is at bottom a disease, 
 an inability to perceive that the best way to 
 mend harm once done is not in lamenting the 
 past, but in struggling for a future ; in which 
 future much of the past could be undone ; or 
 if it could not be undone, at least it could be 
 
 3 
 
34 Introduction: Critical. 
 
 prevented from contaminating with its corpse 
 the life of the future. And his regret is bitter 
 enough. In the first of the two poems, " Re- 
 gret" and "Reminiscence," the feeling again 
 is as yet only discernment ; but in the second, 
 the poison has already entered his soul, and 
 accordingly it no longer is a song, but a cry 
 of agony. . . . 
 
 At first it is is only — 
 
 " But where are ye, О moments tender 
 Of young my hopes, of heartfelt peace ? 
 The former heat and grace of inspiration ? 
 Come again, О ye, of spring my years ! " 
 
 But later it becomes — 
 
 " Before me memory in silence 
 Its lengthy roll unfolds, 
 And with disgust my life I reading 
 Tremble I and curse it. 
 Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed 
 But wash away the lines of grief I cannot. 
 In laziness, in senseless feasts, 
 In the madness of ruinous license, 
 In thraldom, poverty, and homeless deserts 
 My wasted years there I behold. . . ." 
 
 17. Regret, in itself a disease, but only of 
 the intellect, soon changes into a more violent 
 disease : into a disease of the constitution, 
 which is fear, fear of insanity. In ordinary 
 minds such disease takes the form of fear for 
 
Introduction : Critical. 35 
 
 the future, of worry for existence ; in extraordi- 
 nary minds it takes more ghastly shapes, — dis- 
 trust of friends, and dread of the close embrace 
 of what is already stretching forth its claws 
 after the soul, — insanity. 
 Hence, — 
 
 " God grant I grow not insane : 
 No, better the stick and beggar's bag ; 
 No, better toil and hunger bear. 
 
 If crazy once, 
 A fright thou art like pestilence, 
 And locked up now shalt thou be. 
 
 " To a chain thee, fool, they '11 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." 
 
 1 8. That thoughts of death should now be 
 his companions is only to be expected. But 
 here again his muse plainly sings itself out in 
 both stages, — the stage of discernment and 
 the stage of fulfilment. In the first of the two 
 poems, "Elegy" and " Death-Thoughts/' he 
 only thinks of death ; in the second he already 
 loners for it. 
 
36 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 In the first it is only — 
 
 " My wishes I have survived. 
 My ambition 1 have outgrown ! 
 Left only is my smart, 
 The fruit of emptiness of heart. 
 
 " Under the storm of cruel Fate 
 Faded has my blooming crown ! 
 Sad I live and lonely, 
 And wait : Is nigh my end ? " 
 
 But in the second it already becomes — 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Every year thus, every day 
 With death my thought I join 
 Of coming death the day 
 I seek among them to divine." 
 
 19. Pushkin died young; that he would have 
 conquered his demon in time there is every 
 reason to believe, though the fact that he had 
 not yet conquered him at the age of thirty-eight 
 must show the tremendous force of bad blood, 
 and still worse circumstance, which combined 
 made the demon of Pushkin. But already he 
 shows signs of having seen the promised land. 
 
Introduction : Critical. 37 
 
 In the three poems, " Resurrection," "The 
 Birdlet" (iv. 133), and "Consolation," the first 
 shows that he conquered his regret-disease ; 
 the second, that he already found in Love some 
 consolation for sorrow. And the third shows 
 that he already felt his way at least to some 
 peace, even though it be not у r et faith in the fu- 
 ture, but only hope. For hope is not yet knowl- 
 edge ; it only trusts that the future will be good. 
 Faith knows that the future must be good, be- 
 cause it is in the hands of God, the Good. 
 In the first it is — 
 
 " Thus my failings vanish too 
 From my wearied soul 
 And again within it visions rise 
 Of my early purer days." 
 
 In the second, — 
 
 " And now I too have consolation : 
 Wherefore murmur against my God 
 When at least to one living being 
 I could of freedom make a gift ? " 
 
 And in the last, — 
 
 " In the future lives the heart : 
 Is the present sad indeed ? 
 J T is but a moment, all will pass. . . ." 
 
 This is consoling utterance, but not yet of 
 the highest ; and the loftiest spiritual song, 
 the song of the Psalmist, was not given unto 
 Pushkin to sins:. 
 
$8 Introduction: Critical 
 
 III. GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 20. I have translated the poems of Pushkin 
 not so much because they are masterpieces in 
 the literature of Russia, as because I think the 
 English reading-public has much to learn from 
 him. English literature is already blessed with 
 masterpieces, which, if readers would only be 
 content to study them for the sake of what they 
 have to impart (not amuse with !), would give 
 enough employment as well as amusement for 
 all the time an ordinary reader can give to liter- 
 ature. So that merely for the sake of making 
 new beauty accessible to English readers, it is 
 hardly worth while to go out of English litera- 
 ture, and drag over from beyond the Atlantic 
 poor Pushkin as a new beast in a circus for 
 admiration. The craze for novelty has its place 
 in human nature but not as an end in itself. As 
 a literary method, it might be found commend- 
 able in a magazine editor, whose highest ambi- 
 tion is to follow the standard of a public even 
 he does not respect. It might be found com- 
 mendable in a gifted author to whom bread is 
 dearer than his genius, so that he is ready to 
 
Introduction: Critical. 59 
 
 sacrifice the one to the other ; but an inexperi- 
 enced author, who has not yet learned wisdom 
 (or is it prudence merely ?) from the bitter lit- 
 erary disappointments which are surely in store 
 for every earnest, aspiring soul, — such an au- 
 thor, I say, — must not be expected to make mere 
 novelty his motive for serious work. Nay, the 
 conclusion at which Pascal arrived, at the age 
 of twenty-six, that there is really only one book 
 that to an earnest soul is sufficient for a life- 
 time to read, — namely, the Bible, — extravagant 
 though this sound, I am ready, after many years 
 of reflection on this saying of Pascal, to sub- 
 scribe to, even at an age when I have six years 
 of experience additional to his. ... To read 
 much, but not many books, is old wisdom, yet 
 ever new. A literary masterpiece is to be read, 
 not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but scores of 
 times. A literary masterpiece should, like true 
 love, grow dearer with intercourse. A literary 
 masterpiece should be read and re-read until 
 it has become part of our flesh and circulates 
 in our blood, until its purity, its loftiness, its 
 wisdom, utter itself in our every deed. It is 
 this devotion to one book that has made the 
 Puritans of such heroic mould ; they fed on 
 one book until they talked and walked and 
 lived out their spiritual food. If any one think 
 
40 Introduction: Critical. 
 
 this estimate of the influence of one great 
 book exaggerated, let him try to live for one 
 week in succession wholly in the spirit of the 
 one book that to him is the book (I will not 
 quarrel with him if it be Smiles instead of 
 St. Matthew, or Malthus's Essay on Population 
 instead of the Gospel of St. John, or even our 
 modern realistic Gospel of dirt), and let him 
 see what will come of it. 
 
 21. Shakespeare, Milton, Carlyle, Ruskin, 
 Emerson, Scott, Goldsmith, Irving, Johnson, 
 Addison, furnish a library which is really 
 enough for the life-time of any one who takes 
 life seriously, and comes to these masters, not 
 as a conceited lord waiting for amusement, — as 
 a judge, in short, — but as a beggar, an humble 
 learner, hoping to carry away from them not 
 the tickle of pleasure, but the life-giving sus- 
 tenance. To make letters a source of amuse- 
 ment is but to dig for iron with a spade of gold. 
 Amusement is indeed often necessary, just as 
 roasting eggs is often necessary ; but who would 
 travel to a volcano for the sake of roasting his 
 eggs ? No, the masters in letters are not sent 
 to us for our amusement ; they are sent to us 
 to give the one answer to each of us, which at 
 the peril of our lives we must sooner or later 
 receive, — the answer to the question : How 
 
Introduction: Critical. 41 
 
 shall we live to be worthy of that spark from 
 heaven which is given us in trust to keep 
 alive for the brief years of life on earth ? The 
 great masters, then, are the inspirers ; and God 
 ever sees to it that there be enough inspir- 
 ers, if men but see to it that there be enough 
 inspired. 
 
 22. But of the millions of the English-speak- 
 ing readers, who to-day assimilates the mas- 
 terpieces of English literature ? Generations 
 come, and generations go. The classic writers 
 keep their reputation ; but do they hold their 
 readers ? Do the readers hold to the masters ? 
 Not the masters sway the public taste, not the 
 writers of the first rank, not the giants; but 
 the pygmies, the minions, the men of the second, 
 fifth, twentieth rank. If any one think me ex- 
 travagant, let him cast a glance of his open 
 eyes at our monthly reviews and magazines, 
 both here and in England, especially those 
 whose circulation reaches into the hundreds of 
 thousands. . . . 
 
 23. Not, then, because additional master- 
 pieces are needed for rousing our degenerate 
 literary taste have I translated Pushkin. As 
 long as the literary editors (who, from the 
 very fact of once having the ear of the public, 
 become the stewards of the hungry) insist on 
 
42 Introduction: Critical. 
 
 feeding it with the Roes and the Crawfords and 
 the Haggards and the Stevensons and the rest 
 of them, not only new masterpieces, but even 
 the old ones will remain unread. The Bible 
 lies on parlor table (if it ever get there !) un- 
 read ; Milton lies indeed beautifully bound, but 
 has to be dusted once a week ; and Emerson 
 need not even be dusted, — he has not yet got 
 as far as to be the ornament of parlor table. 
 
 But I have translated Pushkin because I 
 believe that even the masters of English lit- 
 erature have defects which are part of the 
 English character ; and as such they must re- 
 appear in its literature. And it is against 
 these that Pushkin's poems offer a healthy 
 remedy. 
 
 24. For the first characteristic of the Anglo- 
 Saxon race is that it is a race of talkers ; and 
 the destinies of the two most advanced nations 
 of that race are to-day governed almost wholly 
 by men whose strength is neither in the head 
 nor in the will nor in the heart, but in the 
 tongue. But the talker cares only for the 
 effect of the moment. With the great hereafter 
 he has but little to do ; hence he becomes, first 
 of all, a resounder, a thunderer, a sky-rockety 
 dazzler. And once that, the orator need not 
 even care whether he persuade or not ; if he 
 
Introduction : Critical. 43 
 
 merely astound the ear, dazzle the eye, and over- 
 whelm the hearer himself for the moment, — if, 
 in short, he but produce an effect, even if it 
 be not the effect desired, — it is well with him 
 in his own estimation. The orator thus soon 
 becomes the mere rhetorician. And this rhetor- 
 ical quality, appealing as it does only to the 
 superficial in man, and coming as it does only 
 from the surface of the man, is found nowhere 
 in such excess as in the poetry of the Anglo- 
 Saxon race. Ornament, metaphor, must be 
 had, and if it cannot be had spontaneously 
 from a fervid imagination, which alone is the 
 legitimate producer of metaphor, recourse must 
 be had to manufactured sound. Hence there 
 is scarcely a single poet in the English tongue 
 whose style is not vitiated by false metaphor ; 
 this is true of the greatest as well as of the 
 least. The member of Parliament who smelt a 
 rat, and saw it brewing in the air until it was in 
 danger of becoming an apple of discord to the 
 honorable members of the House, could have 
 been born only on British soil. To take up 
 arms against a sea of trouble, and to discover 
 footprints in the sands of time while sailing 
 over life's solemn main (no less than five false 
 metaphors in this example from the Psalm of 
 Life !) are feats that can be accomplished by the 
 
44 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 imagination of even a Shakespeare or a Long- 
 fellow solely because these are Anglo-Saxons. 
 And I am yet to see five consecutive pages of 
 any Anglo-Saxon poet free from this literary 
 vice of false metaphor ! I call this a vice 
 because it is at bottom an insincerity of im- 
 agination. The false metaphors are not pic- 
 tures seen, but pictures made up; they are 
 not the spontaneous outbursts of an overflow- 
 ing imagination, but the ground-out product 
 of pictureless will for the sake of effect. And 
 this I do not hesitate to call literary insin- 
 cerity even though the process of making 
 them up be unconscious at the time to the 
 poet himself. 
 
 25. Now it is Pushkin's great virtue that his 
 imagination is eminently spontaneous. He 
 seldom uses adjectives ; but when he does use 
 them, he uses such only as do actually describe 
 something. He seldom uses similes or meta- 
 phors, — he prefers to sing of the subjects them- 
 selves, not of what they resemble ; but when he 
 does use them, the reader's imagination is able 
 to see the picture the poet had in mind, which 
 is not often true of the English bards. Exam- 
 ples for comparison are innumerable ; let a few 
 suffice. Turn to Pushkin's lines, " Regret." 
 He there regrets the days of his youth, but 
 
Introduction : Critical. 45 
 
 first tells by way of contrast what he does not 
 regret ; and his poem is simple, straightforward. 
 Byron, however, in his " Stanzas for Music," of 
 which Canon Farrar thought well enough to 
 insert them in his " With the Poets," and Mr. 
 Palgrave thinks good enough to be admitted 
 into his " Treasury of English Poetry," finds it 
 necessary to preface it with something like 
 philosophical remarks, and then proceeds in 
 this fashion : — 
 
 11 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
 
 happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 
 
 vain 
 The shore to which their shivered sail shall never 
 
 stretch again, 
 
 " Then the mortal coldness of the soul till death itself 
 
 comes down ; 
 It cannot feel for other's woes, it dare not dream it£*own. 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
 
 tears. 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice 
 
 appears. 
 
 " Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished 
 
 scene, 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be, 
 So midst the withered waste of life, those tears would 
 
 flow to me." 
 
46 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 One must go to Shakespeare's Sonnets for 
 poetry as false as this. Among writers with 
 the true poetic feeling, such as Byron truly had, 
 I know not the like of this except these. Of 
 these twelve lines only the first two of the last 
 stanza are true, are felt; the rest are made. 
 How are we, not Arabs but English-talking folk, 
 to know the springs which in deserts found seem 
 {do they?) sweet, brackish though they be? 
 And Byron was a poet! But even a Byron 
 cannot make a shivered sail or a coldness of 
 a soul which is mortal, or a chill that freezes 
 over a fountain of tears anything but mere ver- 
 biage, and verbiage moreover which instead 
 of the intended sadness is dangerously nigh 
 raising laughter. . . . 
 
 26. Again, take Longfellow's " Hymn to 
 Night : " — 
 
 " I heard the trailing garments of the night 
 Sweep through her marble halls ! 
 I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
 From the celestial walls. 
 
 From the cool cisterns of the midnight air, 
 My spirit drank repose." 
 
 For the like of this one can no longer go even 
 to Shakespeare's Sonnets. For Shakespeare 
 was still a poet. One must now go to Mrs. 
 Deland, who is not even that. For observe : 
 
Introduction : Critical. 47 
 
 Night has halls, and these halls are marble 
 halls ; and this marble-hailed Night is unable 
 to stay at home, and must go forth, and accord- 
 ingly she does go in full dress with her gar- 
 ments trailing with a right gracious sweep. And 
 the bard not only sees the sable skirts which 
 dangle about in fringes made phosphorescent by 
 contact with the celestial walls of such pecu- 
 liar marble, but he even hears the rustle. . . . 
 And these halls with accommodating grace are 
 changed into cool, deep cisterns from which 
 accordingly the bard's spirit with due solemnity 
 draws into his spirit's wide-opened mouth a 
 draught of repose. 
 
 27. Turn from this " Hymn to Night " of 
 thirty lines to the three lines of Pushkin in his 
 " Reminiscence," which alone he devotes to 
 Night : — 
 
 " When noisy day to mortals quiet grows, 
 And upon the city's silent walls 
 Night's shadow half-transparent lies.'''' 
 
 The marble halls and the trailing garments 
 were ground out from the writer's fingers ; the 
 half-transparent shadow of the poet cci7ne to 
 the poet. . . . 
 
 28. After such examples of wretchedness 
 from real giants such as Byron and Longfellow 
 indisputably are, I do not hesitate to ask the 
 
48 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 reader for a last example to turn first to Push- 
 kin's " Cloud," and then read Shelley's poem 
 on the same subject : — 
 
 " I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 In their noonday dreams. [Just how are leaves thus 
 
 laid ?] 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 As she dances about in the su?t." 
 
 (Oh, good, my Shelley ! one dances to and 
 fro; one cannot dance in a uniform, straight- 
 forward motion. Thy imagination never saw 
 that picture! Spin, whirl, rush, — yes, but 
 dance ?) 
 
 " That orbed maiden with white fire laden 
 Whom mortals call the Moon 
 Glides glimmering o^er my fleece-like floor, 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet 
 Which only the angels hear 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's roof, 
 The stars peep behind her and peer." 
 
 Who has not been stirred by the sight of the 
 fleece-like, broken clouds on a moonlight night ? 
 But who on looking up to that noble arch over- 
 head at such a moment could see it as a 
 floor? . . . 
 
 29. I call this wretched poetry, even though 
 other critics vociferously declare Shelley's 
 
Introduction : Critical. 49 
 
 " Cloud " to be one of the masterpieces of the 
 English language. De gustibus поп disputan- 
 dum. The Chinese have a liking, it is said, 
 for black teeth, and a bulb of a nose is consid- 
 ered a great beauty in some parts of Africa, and 
 a human leg is considered a great delicacy by 
 some Islanders ; but . . . 
 
 30. And the second characteristic of the 
 Anglo-Saxon race, which, however valuable it 
 may prove in practical life, is reflected disas- 
 trously in its poetry, is its incapacity to appre- 
 ciate true sentiment. An Anglo-Saxon knows 
 sentimentality when he sees it, he knows mor- 
 bidness when he sees it; but the healthy senti- 
 ment of which these are but the diseases he 
 is incapable of appreciating to a depth where 
 it would become part of his life. Hence, though 
 a Malthus might have written his Essay on 
 Population anywhere, since it is a truly cosmo- 
 politan book, a Malthusian doctrine with all 
 that it means and stands for could have grown 
 up only on British soil; and though the warn- 
 ing voice against the dangers of sentimental 
 charity {if there really be such a thing, and if 
 such a thing, supposing it to exist, be really 
 dangerous !) might be lifted in any land, the 
 hard, frigid, almost brutal doctrine of scientific 
 charity could strike root only in London, and 
 4 
 
50 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 blossom out in full array only in a city like 
 
 Boston. The reader will please observe that I 
 
 do not here undertake to judge. Malthusian 
 
 doctrine, scientific charity, brutality of any 
 
 kind may be necessary, for aught I know. A 
 
 great many well-meaning and kind-hearted 
 
 people have in sober thought decided that it 
 
 often is necessary. I am only stating what 
 
 seems to me to be a fact. To me this is a most 
 
 melancholy fact ; to others it may be a joyful 
 
 fact. But whether joyful or melancholy, this 
 
 fact explains why so little sentiment is found 
 
 among the Anglo-Saxon poets even when they 
 
 feel their passions, and do not, as is usually the 
 
 case with them, reason about them, or what is 
 
 worse, compose far-fetched similes about them. 
 
 Glimpses of sentiment are of course found 
 
 now and then, but only now and then. It is 
 
 not often that Wordsworth sings in such pure 
 
 strains as that of the lines, — 
 
 " My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A Rainbow in the sky." 
 
 It is not often that Byron strikes a chord as 
 
 deep as that of the lines " In an Album : " — 
 
 " As o'er the cold, sepulchral stone, 
 Some name arrests the passer-by." 
 
 It is here, however, that Pushkin is unsur- 
 passed. One must go to Heine, one must go 
 
Introduction : Critical. 5/ 
 
 to Uhland, to Goethe, to find the like of him. 
 And what makes him master here is the fact 
 that his sentiment comes out pure, that it 
 comes forth fused. And it comes thus because 
 it comes from the depths ; and as such it must 
 find response even in an Anglo-Saxon heart, 
 provided it has not yet been eaten into by 
 Malthusian law and scientific charity. Push- 
 kin's sentiment extorts respect even where it 
 finds no longer any response ; and as the sight 
 of nobility stirs a healthy soul to noble deeds r 
 as the sight of beauty refines the eye, so the 
 presence of true sentiment can only awaken 
 whatever sentiment already sleeps within us. 
 It is for supplying this glaring defect in the 
 English poets that a reading of Pushkin be- 
 comes invaluable. I almost fear to quote or 
 compare. Sentiment cannot be argued about; 
 like all else of the highest, deepest, like God, 
 like love, it must be felt. Where it is under- 
 stood, nothing need be said ; where it is not 
 understood, nothing can be said. . . . 
 
 31. And yet a single example I venture to 
 give. Pushkin's " Inspiring Love " and Words- 
 worth's "Phantom of Delight" treat of the 
 same theme. Pushkin sees his beloved again, 
 and after years — 
 
52 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 " Enraptured beats again my heart, 
 And risen are for it again 
 Both reverence and Inspiration 
 And life, and tears, and love." 
 
 Wordsworth also gets now a nearer view of 
 his " Phantom of Delight ; " and the sight rouses 
 him to this pitch of enthusiastic sentiment : 
 
 " And now I see with eye serene, 
 The very pulse of the machine." 
 
 In the presence of such bungling, I am almost 
 ashamed to call attention, not to the machine 
 that has a pulse, but to that noble woman 
 who, purified, clarified in the imagination by 
 the heat of a melted heart, can only become 
 to the poet, a — machine. And this is the 
 poet (whose very essence should be sensitive- 
 ness, delicacy, sentiment) who is ranked by 
 Matthew Arnold as the greatest poet since 
 Shakespeare. . . . 
 
 32. I have given only one example, though 
 there is hardly a volume of English poetry, 
 with the possible exception of those of Burns, 
 which does not furnish dozens of examples. 
 If I give only one, it is because I have in mind 
 /Esop's lioness, who gave such smart reply 
 when chided for giving birth to only one 
 young. . . . 
 
Introduction : Critical. 53 
 
 33. There is, indeed, one poet in the Eng- 
 lish language whose pages throb with sentiment, 
 and who is moreover singularly free from that 
 literary vice which I have called insincerity 
 of imagination ; in purity of pictures, in simpli- 
 city of sentiment, Goldsmith is unsurpassed in 
 any tongue, but Goldsmith was not an Anglo- 
 Saxon. And even Macaulay's great praise of 
 11 The Traveller " has not been sufficient to give 
 it a place of authority among readers. The 
 persons that read " The Traveller " once a year, 
 as such a possession for all times should be 
 read by rational readers, are very few. 
 
 34. From what I have designated as the 
 first characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race — its 
 rhetorical quality — springs the second, which I 
 have designated as the superficiality of senti- 
 ment ; since the rhetorician needs no depth, 
 and when he does need it, he needs it only for 
 the moment. And from this same rhetorical 
 quality springs the third characteristic of Eng- 
 lish writers which appears in literature as a 
 vice. I mean their comparative lack of the 
 sense of form, of measuredness, literary tem- 
 perance, — the want, in short, of the artistic 
 sense. For architectural proportion, with be- 
 ginning, middle, and end in proper relation, 
 English poets have but little respect, and it is 
 
54 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 here that Pushkin is again master. It is the 
 essence of poetry, that which makes it not- 
 ftrose, that it is intense ; but intensity to pro- 
 duce its effect must be short-lived. Prolonged, 
 like a stimulant, it ceases to act. Hence, one 
 of the first laws of poetry is that the presenta- 
 tion of its scenes, emotions, episodes, be brief. 
 Against this law the sins in English literature 
 among its masters are innumerable. Take, for 
 instance, the manner in which Pushkin, on the 
 one hand, and English poets, on the other, 
 treat an object which has ever affected men 
 with poetic emotion. 
 
 35. Many are the English poets who have 
 tried their voices in singing of birds ; Words- 
 worth's lines to the Skylark, the Green Linnet, 
 the Cuckoo, Shelley's piece "To a Skylark," 
 Keats's " Ode to a Nightingale," Bryant's " Lines 
 to a Waterfowl," attest sufficiently the inspira- 
 tion which tender birdie hath for the soul of 
 man. Now read these in the light of Pushkin's 
 twenty lines called " The Birdlet." Bryant 
 alone, it seems to me, holds his own by the 
 side of Pushkin. Shelley and Keats are 
 lengthy to weariness ; and Wordsworth is 
 almost painfully tame. What thoughtlet or 
 emotionlet these are stirred with at the sight 
 of birdie is like a babe in the swaddling-clothes 
 
Introduction : Critical. 55 
 
 of fond, but inexperienced parents, suffocated 
 in its wrappage. 
 
 36. This measuredness Pushkin displays 
 best in his narrative poems. His story moves. 
 His " Delibash " is the finest example of rapidity 
 of execution combined with fidelity of skill. 
 And the vividness of his stories in " The 
 Drowned," "The Roussalka," and "The Cos- 
 sak," is due not so much to the dramatic talent 
 Pushkin doubtless possessed as to the sense of 
 proportion which saved him from loading his 
 narrative with needless detail. Gray's " Elegy," 
 for instance, matchless in its beauty, is marred 
 by the needless appendage of the youth him- 
 self. This part of the poem seems patched on. 
 Wordsworth's " Lucy Gray " seems to justify 
 Goldsmith's bold metaphor, — for it does drag 
 a lengthening chain at each remove. Long- 
 fellow's " Prelude " has like " Sartor Resar- 
 tus " a most unwieldy apparatus for getting 
 ready. The poet there is ever ready to say 
 something, but hardly says it even at the end. 
 And even Tennyson, who at one time did know 
 what it was to keep fine poise in such matters, 
 is frequently guilty of this merely getting ready 
 to say his say. 
 
 37. These, then, are the three great virtues 
 of Pushkin's poems : They have sincere imag- 
 
56 Introduction : Critical. 
 
 ination, which means pure taste ; they have 
 true sentiment, which means pure depth ; they 
 have true measure, which means pure art. 
 Pushkin has many more virtues which are 
 common to all great poets ; but of these three 
 I thought necessary to speak in detail. 
 
Poems : ^utobtograpijical 
 
$oems : ^иіойіозга^ісаі* 
 
 MON PORTRAIT. 
 
 X. 35- 1 
 
 Vous me demandez mon portrait, 
 Mais peint d'apres nature : 
 Mon cher, il sera bientot fait, 
 Quoique en miniature. 
 
 Je sais un jeune polisson 
 Encore dans les classes : 
 Point sot, je le dis sans fagon 
 Et sans fades grimaces. 
 
 One, il ne fut de babillard, 
 Ni docteur de Sorbonne 
 Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard 
 Que moi-meme en personne. 
 
 1 See Preface, § i. 
 
6o Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 Ma taille a. celle des plus longs 
 Los n'est point egalee ; 
 J'ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds, 
 Et la tete bouclee. 
 
 J'aime et le monde, et son fracas, 
 Je hais la solitude ; 
 J'abhorre et noises et debats, 
 Et tant soit peu l'etude. 
 
 Spectacles, bals me plaisent fort, 
 Et d'apres ma pensee 
 Je dirais ce que j'aime encore, 
 Si je n'etais au lycee. 
 
 Apres cela, mon cher ami, 
 L'on peut me reconnaitre : 
 Oui ! tel que le bon Dieu me fit, 
 Je veux toujours paraitre. 
 
 Vrai demon pour Tespieglerie, 
 Vrai singe par sa mine, 
 Beaucoup et trop d'etourderie, — 
 Ma foi — voila Poushkine. 
 
 1814. 
 
My Pedigree. 61 
 
 MY PEDIGREE. 
 
 IV. 66. 
 
 With scorning laughter at a fellow writer, 
 
 In a chorus the Russian scribes 
 
 With name of aristocrat me chide : 
 
 Just look, if please you . . . nonsense what ! 
 
 Court Coachman not I, nor assessor, 
 
 Nor am I nobleman by cross ; 
 
 No academician, nor professor, 
 
 I 'm simply of Russia a citizen. 
 
 Well I know the times' corruption, 
 And, surely, not gainsay it shall I : 
 Our nobility but recent is : 
 The more recent it, the more noble 'tis. 
 But of humbled races a chip, 
 And, God be thanked, not alone 
 Of ancient Lords am scion I ; 
 Citizen I am, a citizen ! 
 
 Not in cakes my grandsire traded, 
 Not a prince was newly-baked he ; 
 Nor at church sang he in choir, 
 Nor polished he the boots of Tsar ; 
 
62 Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 Was not escaped a soldier he 
 From the German powdered ranks ; 
 How then aristocrat am I to be ? 
 God be thanked, I am but a citizen. 
 
 My grandsire Radsha in warlike service 
 To Alexander Nefsky was attached. 
 The Crowned Wrathful, Fourth Ivan, 
 His descendants in his ire had spared. 
 About the Tsars the Pushkins moved ; 
 And more than one acquired renown, 
 When against the Poles battling was 
 Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain. 
 
 When treason conquered was and falsehood, 
 
 And the rage of storm of war, 
 
 When the Romanoffs upon the throne 
 
 The nation called by its Chart — 
 
 We upon it laid our hands ; 
 
 The martyr's son then favored us ; 
 
 Time was, our race was prized, 
 
 But I . . . am but a citizen obscure. 
 
 Our stubborn spirit us tricks has played ; 
 Most irrepressible of his race, 
 With Peter my sire could not get on; 
 And for this was hung by him. 
 
My Pedigree. 63 
 
 Let his example a lesson be : 
 Not contradiction loves a ruler, 
 Not all can be Prince Dolgorukys, 
 Happy only is the simple citizen. 
 
 My grandfather, when the rebels rose 
 
 In the palace of Peterhof, 
 
 Like Munich, faithful he remained 
 
 To the fallen Peter Third ; 
 
 To honor came then the Orloffs, 
 
 But my sire into fortress, prison — 
 
 Quiet now was our stern race, 
 
 And I was born merely — citizen. 
 
 Beneath my crested seal 
 The roll of family charts I Ve kept ; 
 Not running after magnates new, 
 My pride of blood I have subdued ; 
 I 'm but an unknown singer 
 Simply Pushkin, not Moussin, 
 My strength is mine, not from court : 
 I am a writer, a citizen. 
 
 1830. 
 
64 Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 MY MONUMENT. 
 
 IV. 23. 
 
 A monument not hand-made I have for me 
 
 erected ; 
 The path to it well-trodden will not overgrow ; 
 Risen higher has it with unbending head 
 Than the monument of Alexander. 
 
 No ! not all of me shall die ! my soul in hal- 
 lowed lyre 
 
 Shall my dust survive, and escape destruction — 
 
 And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sub- 
 lunar 
 
 One bard at least living shall remain. 
 
 My name will travel over the whole of Russia 
 great, 
 
 And there pronounce my name shall every liv- 
 ing tongue : 
 
 The Slav's proud scion, and the Finn, and the 
 savage yet 
 
 Tungus, and the Calmuck, lover of the steppe. 
 
My Monument. 65 
 
 And long to the nation I shall be dear : 
 For rousing with my lyre its noble feelings, 
 For extolling freedom in a cruel age, 
 For calling mercy upon the fallen. 
 
 The bidding of God, О Muse, obey. 
 Fear not insult, ask not crown : 
 Praise and blame take with indifference 
 And dispute not with the fool ! 
 
 August y 1836. 
 
66 Poems: Autobiographical. 
 
 MY MUSE. 
 
 IV. i. 
 
 In the days of my youth she was fond of me, 
 And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me. 
 To me with smile she listened ; and already 
 
 gently 
 Along the openings echoing of the woods 
 Was playing I with fingers tender : 
 Both hymns solemn, god-inspired 
 And peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd. 
 From morn till night in oak's dumb shadow 
 To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened; 
 And with sparing reward me gladdening 
 Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear, 
 From my hands the flute herself she took. 
 Now filled the wood was with breath divine 
 And the heart with holy enchantment filled. 
 
 1823. 
 
My Demon. 6y 
 
 MY DEMON. 
 
 IV. 107. 
 
 In those days when new to me were 
 
 Of existence all impressions : — 
 
 The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, 
 
 The song of nightingale at night ; 
 
 When the sentiments elevated 
 
 Of Freedom, glory and of love, 
 
 And of art the inspiration 
 
 Stirred deeply so my blood : — 
 
 My hopeful hours and joyful 
 
 With melancholy sudden dark'ning 
 
 A certain evil spirit then 
 
 Began in secret me to visit. 
 
 Grievous were our meetings, 
 
 His smile, and his wonderful glance, 
 
 His speeches, these so stinging 
 
 Cold poison poured into my soul. 
 
 Providence with slander 
 
 Inexhaustible he tempted ; 
 
 Of Beauty as a dream he spake 
 
 And inspiration he despised ; 
 
68 Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, 
 On life with scorn he looked — 
 And nought in all nature 
 To bless he ever wished. 
 
 1823. 
 
Regret. 69: 
 
 REGRET. 
 
 IV. 76. 
 
 Not ye regret I, of spring my years, 
 In dreams gone by of hopeless love ; 
 Not ye regret I, О mysteries of nights, 
 By songstress passionate celebrated ; 
 
 Not ye, regret I, О my faithless friends 
 Nor crowns of feasts, nor cups of circle, 
 Nor ye regret I, О traitresses young — 
 To pleasures melancholy stranger am I. 
 
 But where are ye, О moments tender 
 Of young my hopes, of heartfelt peace ? 
 The former heat and grace of inspiration ? 
 Come again, О ye, of spring my years ! 
 
jo Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 REMINISCENCE. 
 
 IV. 96. 
 
 When noisy day to mortals quiet grows, 
 
 And upon the city's silent walls 
 
 Night's shadow half-transparent lies, 
 
 And Sleep, of daily toils reward, — 
 
 Then for me are dragging in the silence 
 
 Of wearying wakefulness the hours. 
 
 In the sloth of night more scorching burn 
 
 My heart's serpents' gnawing fangs ; 
 
 Boil my thoughts ; my soul with grief oppressed 
 
 Full of reveries sad is thronged. 
 
 Before me memory in silence 
 
 Its lengthy roll unfolds. 
 
 And with disgust my life I reading 
 
 Tremble I and curse it. 
 
 Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed, 
 
 But wash away the lines of grief I cannot. 
 
 In laziness, in senseless feasts 
 
 In the craziness of ruinous license, 
 
 In thraldom, poverty, and homeless deserts 
 
 My wasted years there I behold. 
 
Reminiscence. 7/ 
 
 Of friends again I hear the treacherous greeting 
 
 Games amid of love and wine. 
 
 To the heart again insults brings 
 
 Irrepressible the cold world. 
 
 No joy for me, — and calmly before me 
 
 Of visions young two now rise : 
 
 Two tender shades, two angels me 
 
 Given by fate in the days of yore. 
 
 But both have wings and flaming swords, 
 
 And they watch — ... and both are vengeant, 
 
 And both to me speak with death tongue 
 
 Of Eternity's mysteries, and of the grave. 
 
 1828. 
 
J2 Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 IV. 85. 
 
 My wishes I have survived, 
 My ambition I have outgrown ! 
 Left only is my smart, 
 The fruit of emptiness of heart. 
 
 Under the storm of cruel Fate 
 Faded has my blooming crown ! 
 Sad I live and lonely, 
 And wait : Is nigh my end ? 
 
 Thus touched by the belated frost, 
 When storm's wintry whistle is heard, 
 On the branch bare and lone 
 Trembles the belated leaf. 
 
 1821. 
 
Resurrection. j$ 
 
 RESURRECTION. 
 
 IV. 116. 
 
 With sleepy brush the barbarian artist 
 The master's painting blackens ; 
 And thoughtlessly his wicked drawing 
 Over it he is daubing. 
 
 But in years the foreign colors 
 Peal off, an aged layer : 
 The work of genius is 'gain before us, 
 With former beauty out it comes. 
 
 Thus my failings vanish too 
 From my wearied soul, 
 And again within it visions rise, 
 Of my early purer days. 
 
 1819. 
 
74 Poems : Autobiographical. 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 IV. 19. 
 
 Tormented by the thirst for the spirit 
 
 I was dragging myself in a sombre desert. 
 
 And a six-winged seraph appeared 
 
 Unto me on the parting of the roads. 
 
 With fingers as light as a dream 
 
 Mine eyes he touched : 
 
 And mine eyes opened wise 
 
 Like the eyes of a frightened eagle ; 
 
 He touched mine ears, 
 
 And they filled with din and ringing. 
 
 And I heard the trembling of the heavens 
 
 And the flight of the angel's wings, 
 
 And the creeping of the polyps in the sea, 
 
 And the growth of the vine in the valley. 
 
 And he took hold of my lips, 
 
 And out he tore my sinful tongue 
 
 With its empty and false speech. 
 
 And the fang of the wise serpent 
 
 Between my terrified lips he placed 
 
 With bloody hand. 
 
The Prophet. 75 
 
 And ope he cut with sword my breast, 
 And out he took my trembling heart, 
 And a coal with flaming blaze 
 Into the opened breast he shoved. 
 Like a corpse I lay in the desert. 
 And the voice of God unto me called : 
 Arise, О prophet, and listen, and guide. 
 Be thou filled with my will, 
 And going over land and sea 
 Fire with the word the hearts of men ! 
 
 1826. 
 
Poems: Narration 
 
$oemg: ШтШ* 
 
 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 т. 5 . 
 
 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 hills and the woods 
 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 tho' with longing, 
 
 To my breast shalt no more cling. 
 
 No kiss for thee to-morrow 
 
 From thine unhappy mother. 
 
8o Poems : Narrative. 
 
 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 '11 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 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, О 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 griefs bitter 
 Mar thy childhood's quiet life ! 
 
The Outcast. 81 
 
 But lo ! behind the woods, near by 
 The moon brings a hut to light. 
 Forlorn, pale, and trembling 
 To the doors nigh she came. 
 She stooped and gently laid she down 
 The babe on the threshold strange. 
 In terror away her eyes she turned 
 And in the dark night disappeared. 
 
 1814. 
 
82 Poems: Narrative. 
 
 THE BLACK SHAWL. 
 
 Ш. 83. 
 
 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 Black Shawl. 83 
 
 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 Danube's billows — 
 
 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. 
 
 1820. 
 
84 Poems : Narrative. 
 
 THE ROUSSALKA. 
 
 in. 71. 
 
 By a lake once in forest darkness 
 A monk his soul was saving, 
 Ever in stern occupation 
 Of prayer, fast, and labor. 
 Already with slackened shovel 
 The aged man his grave was digging, 
 And only for death in peace and quiet 
 To his saintly patrons prayed he. 
 
 Once in summer at the threshold 
 
 Of his drooping little hut 
 
 To God was praying the hermit. 
 
 Darker grew the forest. 
 
 Over the lake was rising fog. 
 
 And in the clouds the reddish moon 
 
 Was gently rolling along the sky. 
 
 Upon the waters the hermit gazed. 
 
 He looks, and fears, and knows not why, 
 Himself he cannot understand. . . . 
 Now he sees : the waves are seething 
 And suddenly again are quiet. . . . 
 
The Roussalha. 85 
 
 Suddenly ... as light as shade of night, 
 
 As white as early snow of hills, 
 
 Out cometh a woman naked 
 
 And on the shore herself she seats. 
 
 Upon the aged monk she gazes 
 
 And she combs her moistened tresses — 
 
 The holy monk with terror trembles, 
 
 Upon her charms still he gazes ; 
 
 With her hand to him she beckons 
 
 And her head she 's quickly nodding. . . . 
 
 And suddenly like a falling star 
 
 The dreamy wave she vanished under. 
 
 The sober monk, all night he slept not, 
 And all day he prayed not 
 The shadow unwittingly before him 
 Of the wondrous maid he ever sees. 
 Again the forest is clad in darkness, 
 Along the clouds the moon is sailing. 
 Again the maid above the water, 
 Pale and splendent there she sits. 
 
 Gaze her eyes, nods her head, 
 Throws kisses, and she 's sporting, 
 The wave she sprinkles, and she frolics ; 
 Child-like weeping now and laughing ; 
 
86 Poems: Narrative. 
 
 Sobbing tender — the monk she calls : 
 Monk, О monk, to me, to me ! 
 Into the waves transparent she dashes ; 
 And again is all in silence deep. 
 
 But on the third day the roused hermit 
 The enchanted shores nigh sitting was, 
 And the beautiful maid he awaited. 
 Upon the trees were falling shades. . . . 
 Night at last by dawn was chased — 
 And nowhere monk could be found, 
 His beard alone, the gray one 
 In the water the boys could see. 
 
 1819. 
 
The Cossak. 8y 
 
 THE COSSAK. 
 
 in. 4. 
 
 Once at midnight hour, 
 Darkness thro' and fog, 
 Quiet by the river 
 Rode a Cossak brave. 
 
 Black his cap upon his ear, 
 Dust-covered is his coat, 
 By his knee the pistols hang 
 And nigh the ground his sword. 
 
 The faithful steed, rein not feeling 
 Is walking slowly on, 
 (Long its mane is, and is waving) 
 Ever further it keeps on. 
 
 Now before him two — three huts : 
 Broken is the fence ; 
 To the village here the road, 
 To the forest there. 
 
 " Not in forest maid is found," 
 Dennis thinks, the brave. 
 " To their chambers went the maids ; 
 Are gone for the night." 
 
88 Poems : Narrative. 
 
 The son of Don he pulls the rein 
 And the spur he strikes : 
 Like an arrow rushed the steed — 
 To the huts he turned. 
 
 In the clouds the distant sky 
 Was silvering the moon ; 
 A Beauty-Maid in melancholy 
 By the window sits. 
 
 Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid, 
 Beats his heart within : 
 Gently steed to left, to left — 
 Under the window now is he. 
 
 " Darker growing is the night 
 And hidden is the moon ; 
 Quick, my darling, do come out, 
 Water give my steed." 
 
 " No, not unto a man so young ; 
 Right fearful 4 is to go ; 
 Fearful 't is my house to leave, 
 And water give thy steed." 
 
 " Have no fear, О Beauty-Maid, 
 
 And friendship close with me " — ■ 
 
 " Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids," - 
 
 " Fear me not, О joy of mine ! 
 
The Cossak. 8g 
 
 " Trust me, dear, thy fear is vain, 
 Away with terror groundless ! 
 Time thou losest precious, 
 Fear not, О my darling ! 
 
 Mount my steed ; with thee I will 
 To distant regions gallop ; 
 Blest with me be thou shalt, 
 Heaven with mate is everywhere." 
 
 And the maid ? Over she bends, " 
 Her fear is overcome, 
 Bashfully to ride consents, 
 And the Cossak happy is. 
 
 Off they dart, away they fly ; 
 Are loving one another. 
 Faithful he for two brief weeks, 
 Forsook her on the third. 
 
 1815. 
 
go Poems : Narrative. 
 
 THE DROWNED. 
 
 IV. 185. 
 
 Into the hut the children run, 
 In haste they called their father: 
 " Papa, papa, oh, our nets 
 Out a corpse have dragged." 
 " Ye lie, ye lie, ye little devils " 
 Upon them father grumbled. 
 11 1 declare, those wicked brats! 
 Corpse now too have they must ! 
 
 " Down will come the court, ' Give answer V 
 
 And for an age no rest from It. 
 
 But what to do ? Heigh, wife, there, 
 
 My coat give me, must get there somehow. . . . 
 
 Now where 's the corpse ? " — " Here, papa, 
 
 here ! " 
 And in truth along the river, 
 Where is spread the moistened net, 
 Upon the sand is seen the corpse. 
 
 Disfigured terribly the corpse is, 
 Is blue, and all is swollen. 
 Is it a hapless sorrower, 
 Who ruined has his sinful soul, 
 
The Drowned. gi 
 
 Or by the waves a fisher taken, 
 Or some fellow, drunkard, 
 Or by robbers stripped, perchance, 
 Trader some, unbusinesslike ? 
 
 To the peasant, what is this ? 
 About he looks and hastens. . . . 
 Seizes he the body drowned, 
 By the feet to water drags it, 
 And from the shore the winding 
 Off he pushes it with oar 
 Downward 'gain floats the corpse, 
 And grave, and cross still is seeking. 
 
 And long the dead among the waves, 
 As if living, swinging, floated ; 
 With his eyes the peasant him 
 Homeward going, followed. 
 " Ye little dogs, now follow me, 
 Each of you a cake shall have ; 
 But look ye out, and hold your tongues ! 
 Else a thrashing shall ye have. 
 
 At night the wind to blow began 
 Full of waves became the river ; 
 Out the light was already going 
 In the peasant's smoky hut. 
 
g2 ■ Poems : Narrative. 
 
 The children sleep ; the mother slumbers. 
 On the oven husband lies. 
 Howls the storm ; a sudden knocking 
 He hears of some one at the window. 
 
 " Who 's there ? " — " Ope the door I say ! " 
 " Time eno' ; what is the matter ? 
 Wherefore comes tramp at night ? 
 By the devil art hither brought ! 
 Wherefore with you should I bother? 
 Crowded my house and dark is." 
 So saying, he with lazy hand 
 Open throws the window. 
 
 Rolls the moon from behind the clouds — 
 And now ? A naked man before him stands ; 
 From his beard a stream is flowing 
 His glance is fixed, and is open. 
 All about him is frightful dumbness 
 And his hands are dropped down ; 
 And to the puffed-out, swollen body 
 Black crabs are fastened. 
 
 The peasant quickly shuts the window ; 
 He recognized his naked guest, 
 Is terror-struck. " May you burst ! " 
 Out he whispered and trembled. 
 
The Drowned. g$ 
 
 In great confusion now his thoughts are, 
 And all night he shakes in fever ; 
 And till the morrow still the knocking 
 'S heard on the window and at the gates. 
 
 Report there was among the people : 
 Saying, since then every year 
 Waiting is the hapless peasant 
 For his guest on the appointed day. 
 In the morning the weather changes 
 And at night the storm arrives, 
 And the dead man is ever knocking 
 By the window, and at the gates. 
 
 1S28. 
 
Poems of Nature* 
 
Poems of Nature* 
 
 THE BIRDLET. 
 
 I. I7I. 
 
 God's birdlet knows 
 
 Nor care, nor toil ; 
 
 Nor weaves it painfully 
 
 An everlasting nest. 
 
 Thro' the long night on the twig it slumbers ; 
 
 When rises the red sun 
 
 Birdie listens to the voice of God 
 
 And it starts, and it sings. 
 
 When Spring, Nature's Beauty, 
 
 And the burning summer have passed, 
 
 And the fog, and the rain, 
 
 By the late fall are brought, 
 
 Men are wearied, men are grieved, 
 
 But birdie flies into distant lands, 
 
 Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea : 
 
 Flies away until the spring. 
 
 1824. 
 
 7 
 
ф Poems of Nature. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 IV. 95- 
 
 О last cloud of the scattered storm, 
 Alone thou sailest along the azure clear ; 
 Alone thou bringest the shadow sombre, 
 Alone thou marrest the joyful day. 
 
 Thou but recently had'st encircled the sky 
 When sternly the lightning was winding about 
 
 thee ; 
 Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder, 
 With rain hast watered the parched earth. 
 
 Enough ! Hie thyself : thy time hath passed : 
 Earth is refreshed; the storm hath fled; 
 And the breeze, fondling the trees' leaves 
 Forth thee chases from the quieted heavens ! 
 
 1835. 
 
The North Wind. g<) 
 
 THE NORTH WIND. 
 
 IV. 94- 
 
 Why, О wrathful north wind, thou 
 The marshy shrub dost downward bend ? 
 Why thus in the distant sky-vault 
 Wrathfully the cloud dost chase I 
 
 The black clouds but recently 
 Had spread the whole heavens o'er, 
 The oak on hill top but recently 
 In beauty wondrous itself was priding. 
 
 Thou hast risen, and up hast played, 
 With terror resounded, and with splendor- 
 And away are driven the stormy clouds ; 
 Down is hurled the mighty oak. 
 
 Let now then the sun's clear face 
 With joy henceforth ever shine, 
 With the clouds now the zephyr play, 
 And the bush in quiet sway. 
 
 1824. 
 
ioo Poems of Nature. 
 
 WINTER MORNING. 
 
 IV. 164. 
 
 Frost and sun — the day is wondrous ! 
 Thou still art slumbering, charming friend. 
 'Tis time, О Beauty, to awaken: 
 Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed, 
 To meet the Northern Dawn of Morning 
 Thyself a north-star do thou appear ! 
 
 Last night, remember, the storm scolded, 
 
 And darkness floated in the clouded sky ; 
 
 Like a yellow, clouded spot 
 
 Thro' the clouds the moon was gleaming, — 
 
 And melancholy thou wert sitting — 
 
 But now . . . thro' the window cast a look : 
 
 Stretched beneath the heavens blue 
 Carpet-like magnificent, 
 In the sun the snow is sparkling ; 
 Dark alone is the wood transparent, 
 And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir, 
 And under the ice the rivulet sparkles. 
 
Winter Morning. 101 
 
 Entire is lighted with diamond splendor 
 
 Thy chamber . . . with merry crackle 
 
 The wood is crackling in the oven. 
 
 To meditation invites the sofa. 
 
 But know you ? In the sleigh not order why 
 
 The brownish mare to harness ? 
 
 Over the morning snow we gliding 
 Trust we shall, my friend, ourselves 
 To the speed of impatient steed ; 
 Visit we shall the fields forsaken, 
 The woods, dense but recently, 
 And the banks so dear to me. 
 
 1829. 
 
102 Poems of Nature. 
 
 WINTER EVENING. 
 
 IV. 166. 
 
 The storm the sky with darkness covers, 
 
 The snowy whirlings twisting ; 
 
 Like a beast wild now is howling, 
 
 Like an infant now is crying ; 
 
 Over the aged roof now sudden 
 
 In the straw it rustling is ; 
 
 Like a traveller now belated 
 
 For entrance at our window knocking. 
 
 With melancholy and with darkness 
 Our little, aged hut is filled 
 Why in silence then thou sittest 
 By the window, wife old mine ? 
 Or by the howling storms art 
 Wearied thou, О companion mine ? 
 Or perchance art slumbering, 
 By the rustling spindle soothed ? 
 
 Let us drink, О kindly friend 
 
 Of my poverty and youth, 
 
 Away with grief, — where is the cup ? 
 
 Joy it shall bring to our heart. 
 
Winter Evening. 103 
 
 A song now sing me, how the bird 
 Beyond the sea in quiet lived ; 
 A song now sing me, how the maiden 
 In the morning for water went. 
 
 The storm the sky with darkness covers, 
 
 The snowy whirlings twisting ; 
 
 Like a beast wild now is howling, 
 
 Like an infant now is crying. 
 
 Let us drink, О kindly friend 
 
 Of my poverty and youth, 
 
 Away with grief, — where is the cup 
 
 Joy it shall bring to our heart ! 
 
 1826. 
 
104 Poems of Nature. 
 
 THE WINTER-ROAD. 
 
 IV. 161. 
 
 Breaking thro' the waving fogs 
 Forth the moon is coming, 
 And on the gloomy acres 
 She gloomy light is shedding. 
 
 Along the wintry, cheerless road 
 Flies the rapid troika 
 The little bell monotonous 
 Wearily is tinkling. 
 
 A certain homefulness is heard 
 In the driver's lengthy lays : 
 Now light-hearted carelessness, 
 Now low-spirited sadness. 
 
 Neither light, nor a dark hut . . . 
 Only snow and silence. . . . 
 Striped mileposts are alone 
 The travellers who meet us. 
 
The Winter-Road. 105 
 
 Sad I feel and weary. ... On the morrow, 
 
 Nina, 
 To my beloved I returning 
 Forget myself shall by the fire 
 And scarce eno' at her shall gaze. 
 
 Loudly of my watch the spring 
 Its measured circle is completing 
 And us the parter of the wearied, 
 Midnight, not shall separate. 
 
 Sad I 'm, Nina ; my journey 's weary ; 
 Slumbering now, my driver is quiet 
 The little bell is monotonous 
 And darkened now is the moon's face. 
 
 1826. 
 
Poems of llofa. 
 
^oems of ILobe* 
 
 THE STORM-[MAID]. 
 
 IV. 146. 
 
 Hast thou seen on the rock the maid, 
 In robe of white above the waves, 
 When seething in the storm dark 
 Played the sea with its shores, — 
 When the glare of lightning hourly 
 With rosy glimmer her lighted up, 
 And the wind beating and flapping 
 Struggled with her flying robe ? 
 
 Beautiful 's the sea in the storm dark, 
 Glorious is the sky even without its blue ; 
 But trust me : on the rock the maid 
 Excels both wave, and sky, and storm. 
 
 1825. 
 
no Poems of Love. 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 Ш. 43. 
 
 Have ye heard in the woods the nightly voice 
 Of the bard of love, of the bard of his grief ? 
 When the fields in the morning hour were still, 
 The flute's sad sound and simple 
 Have ye heard ? 
 
 Have ye met in the desert darkness of the 
 
 forest 
 The bard of love, the bard of his grief ? 
 Was it a track of tears, was it a smile, 
 Or a quiet glance filled with melancholy, 
 Have ye met ? 
 
 Have ye sighed, listening to the calm voice 
 Of the bard of love, of the bard of grief ? 
 When in the woods the youth ye saw 
 And met the glance of his dulled eyes, 
 Have ye sighed ? 
 
 1816. 
 
Spanish Love-Song. in 
 
 SPANISH LOVE-SONG. 
 
 IV. 136. 
 
 Evening Zephyr 
 
 Waves the ether. 
 
 Murmurs, 
 
 Rushes 
 
 The Guadalquivir. 
 
 Now the golden moon has risen, 
 Quiet, . . . Tshoo . . . guitar 's now heard. 
 Now the Spanish girl young 
 O'er the balcony has leaned. 
 
 Evening Zephyr 
 
 Waves the ether. 
 
 Murmurs, 
 
 Rushes 
 
 The Guadalquivir. 
 
 Drop thy mantle, angel gentle, 
 And appear as fair as day ! 
 Thro' the iron balustrade 
 Put thy wondrous tender foot ! 
 
ii2 Poems of Love. 
 
 Evening Zephyr 
 
 Waves the ether. 
 
 Murmurs, 
 
 Rushes 
 
 The Guadalquivir. 
 
 1824. 
 
Love. и 3 
 
 [LOVE.] 
 
 IV. 152. 
 
 Bitterly groaning, jealous maid the youth was 
 
 scolding; 
 He, on her shoulder leaning, suddenly was in 
 
 slumber lost. 
 Silent forthwith is the maid; his light sleep 
 
 now fondles she 
 Now she smiles upon him, and is shedding 
 
 gentle tears. 
 
 1*35- 
 
ii4 Poems of Love. 
 
 [JEALOUSY.] 
 
 IV. 85. 
 
 Damp day's light is quenched : damp night's 
 
 darkness 
 Stretches over the sky its leaden garment. 
 Like a ghost, from behind the pine wood 
 Foggy moon has risen. . . . 
 All brings upon my soul darkness grievous. 
 Far, far away rises the shining moon, 
 There the earth is filled with evening warmth 
 There the sea moveth with luxuriant wave 
 Under the heavens blue. . . . 
 Now is the time. On the hillside now she 
 
 walks 
 To the shore washed by noisy waves. 
 There, under the billowed cliffs 
 Alone she sits now melancholy. . . . 
 Alone . . . none before her weeping, grieves 
 
 not, 
 Her knees none kisses in ecstasy. 
 Alone ... to lips of none she is yielding 
 
Jealousy. 115 
 
 Her shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white 
 fingers. 
 
 None is worthy of her heavenly love. 
 
 Is it not so ? Thou art alone. . . . Thou 
 
 weepest. . . . 
 And I at peace ? 
 
 But if 
 
 1823. 
 
ііб Poems of Love. 
 
 IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 IV. 99. 
 
 The name of me, what is it to thee 
 Die it shall like the grievous sound 
 Of wave, playing on distant shore, 
 As sound of night in forest dark. 
 
 Upon the sheet of memory- 
 Its traces dead leave it shall 
 Inscriptions-like of grave-yard 
 In some foreign tongue. 
 
 What is in it ? Long ago forgotten 
 In tumultuous waves and fresh 
 To thy soul not give it shall 
 Pure memories and tender. 
 
 But on sad days, in calmness 
 
 Do pronounce it sadly ; 
 
 Say then : I do remember thee — 
 
 On earth one heart is where yet I live ! 
 
 1829. 
 
The Awaking. uy 
 
 THE AWAKING. 
 
 III. 42. 
 
 Ye dreams, ye dreams, 
 Where is your sweetness ? 
 Where thou, where thou 
 
 joy of night ? 
 Disappeared has it, 
 The joyous dream ; 
 And solitary 
 
 In darkness deep 
 
 1 awaken. 
 Round my bed 
 Is silent night. 
 
 At once are cooled, 
 At once are fled, 
 All in a crowd 
 The dreams of Love — 
 Still with longing 
 The soul is filled 
 And grasps of sleep 
 The memory. 
 О Love, О Love, 
 О hear my prayer : 
 
п8 Poems of Love. 
 
 Again send me 
 Those visions thine, 
 And on the morrow- 
 Raptured anew 
 Let me die 
 Without awaking ! 
 
 1816. 
 
Elegy. ид 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 in. 39. 
 
 Happy who to himself confess 
 His passion dares without terror ; 
 Happy who in fate uncertain 
 By modest hope is fondled ; 
 Happy who by foggy moonbeams 
 Is led to midnight joyful 
 And with faithful key who gently 
 The door unlocks of his beloved. 
 
 But for me in sad my life 
 
 No joy there is of secret pleasure ; 
 
 Hope's early flower faded is, 
 
 By struggle withered is life's flower. 
 
 Youth away flies melancholy, 
 
 And droop with me life's roses ; 
 
 But by Love tho' long forgot, 
 
 Forget Love's tears I cannot. 
 
 1816. 
 
I20 Poems of Love. 
 
 [FIRST LOVE.] 
 
 I. 112. 
 
 Not at once our youth is faded, 
 Not at once our joys forsake us, 
 And happiness we unexpected 
 Yet embrace shall more than once ; 
 But ye, impressions never-dying 
 Of newly trepidating Love, 
 And thou, first flame of Intoxication, ■ 
 Not flying back are coming ye ! 
 
Elegy. I2i 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 III. 99. 
 
 Hushed I soon shall be. But if on sorrow's 
 
 day 
 My songs to me with pensive play replied ; 
 But if the youths to me, in silence listening 
 At my love's long torture were marvelling ; 
 But if thou thyself, to tenderness yielding 
 Repeated in quiet my melancholy verses 
 And didst love my heart's passionate language ; 
 But if I am loved : — grant then, О dearest friend, 
 That my beautiful beloved's coveted name 
 Breathe life into my lyre's farewell. 
 When for aye embraced I am by sleep of Death, 
 Over my urn do with tenderness pronounce : 
 " By me he loved was, to me he owed 
 Of his love and song his last inspiration." 
 
 1821. 
 
122 Poems of Love. 
 
 
 THE BURNT LETTER. 
 
 IV. 87. 
 
 Good-bye, love-letter, good-bye ! 'T is her 
 
 command. . . . 
 How long I waited, how long my hand 
 To the fire my joys to yield was loath ! . . . 
 But eno', the hour has come: burn, letter of 
 
 my love ! 
 I am ready : listens more my soul to nought. 
 Now the greedy flame thy sheets shall lick . . . 
 A minute ! . . . they crackle, they blaze ... a 
 
 light smoke 
 Curls and is lost with prayer mine. 
 Now the finger's faithful imprint losing 
 Burns the melted wax. ... О Heavens ! 
 Done it is ! curled in are the dark sheets ; 
 Upon their ashes light the lines adored 
 Are gleaming. . . . My breast is heavy. Ashes 
 
 dear, 
 In my sorrowful lot but poor consolation, 
 Remain for aye with me on my weary 
 
 breast. . . . 
 
Sing Not, Beauty. 123 
 
 [SING NOT, BEAUTY.] 
 
 iv. 135. 
 
 Sing not, Beauty, in my presence, 
 Of Transcaucasia sad the songs, 
 Of distant shore, another life, 
 The memory to me they bring. 
 
 Alas, alas, remind they do, 
 
 These cruel strains of thine, 
 
 Of steppes, and night, and of the moon 
 
 And of distant, poor maid's features. 
 
 The vision loved, tender, fated, 
 Forget can I, when thee I see 
 But when thou singest, then before me 
 Up again it rises. 
 
 Sing not, Beauty, in my presence 
 Of Transcaucasia sad the songs, 
 Of distant shore, another life 
 The memory to me they bring. 
 
 1828. 
 
124 
 
 Poems of Love. 
 
 SIGNS. 
 
 IV. i2 5 . 
 
 To thee I rode : living dreams then 
 Behind me winding in playful crowd ; 
 My sportive trot my shoulder over 
 The moon upon my right was chasing. 
 
 From thee I rode : other dreams now. 
 My loving soul now sad was, 
 And the moon at left my side 
 Companion mine now sad was. 
 
 To dreaming thus in quiet ever 
 Singers we are given over ; 
 Marks thus of superstition 
 Soul's feeling with are in accord ! 
 
 1829. 
 
A Presentiment. 125 
 
 A PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 IV. 97. 
 
 The clouds again are o'er me, 
 Have gathered in the stillness ; 
 Again me with misfortune 
 Envious fate now threatens. 
 Will I keep my defiance ? 
 Will I bring against her 
 The firmness and patience 
 Of my youthful pride ? 
 
 Wearied by a stormy life 
 I await the storm fretless 
 Perhaps once more safe again 
 A harbor shall I find. . . . 
 But I feel the parting nigh, 
 Unavoidable, fearful hour, 
 To press thy hand for the last time 
 I haste to thee, my angel. 
 
126 Poems of Love. 
 
 Angel gentle, angel calm, 
 Gently tell me : fare thee well. 
 Be thou grieved : thy tender gaze 
 Either drop or to me raise. 
 The memory of thee now shall 
 To my soul replace 
 The strength, the pride and the hope, 
 The daring of my former days ! 
 
 1828. 
 
In Vain, Dear Friend. 127 
 
 [IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND.] 
 
 III. 221. 
 
 In vain, dear friend, to conceal I tried 
 The turmoil cold of my grieving soul ; 
 Now me thou knowest ; goes by the intoxi- 
 cation. 
 And no longer thee I love. . . . 
 Vanished for aye the bewitching hours, 
 The beautiful time has passed, 
 Youthful desires extinguished are 
 And lifeless hope is in my heart. . . . 
 
128 Poems of Love. 
 
 [LOVE'S DEBT.] 
 
 IV. ioi. 
 
 For the shores of thy distant home 
 
 Thou hast forsaken the foreign land ; 
 
 In a memorable, sad hour 
 
 I before thee cried long. 
 
 Tho' cold my hands were growing 
 
 Thee back to hold they tried; 
 
 And begged of thee my parting groan 
 
 The gnawing weariness not to break. 
 
 But from my bitter kisses thou 
 Thy lips away hast torn ; 
 From the land of exile dreary 
 Calling me to another land. 
 Thou saidst: on the day of meeting 
 Beneath a sky forever blue 
 Olives' shade beneath, love's kisses 
 Again, my friend, we shall unite. 
 
 But where, alas ! the vaults of sky 
 Shining are with glimmer blue, 
 
Love's Debt. i2g 
 
 Where 'neath the rocks the waters slumber — 
 
 With last sleep art sleeping thou. 
 
 And beauty thine and sufferings 
 
 In the urnal grave have disappeared — 
 
 But the kiss of meeting is also gone. . . . 
 
 But still I wait : thou art my debtor ! . . . 
 
i jo Poems of Love. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 in. 146. 
 
 Oh, if true it is that by night 
 
 When resting are the living 
 
 And from the sky the rays of moon 
 
 Along the stones of church-yard glide ; 
 
 O, if true it is that emptied then 
 
 Are the quiet graves, 
 
 I call thy shade, I wait my Lila 
 
 Come hither, come hither, my friend, to me ! 
 
 Appear, О shade of my beloved 
 
 As thou before our parting wert : 
 
 Pale, cold, like a wintry day 
 
 Disfigured by thy struggle of death, 
 
 Come like unto a distant star, 
 
 Or like a fearful apparition, 
 
 'T is all the same : Come hither, come hither 
 
 And I call thee, not in order 
 
 To reproach him whose wickedness 
 
 My friend hath slain. 
 
Invocation. 131 
 
 Nor to fathom the grave's mysteries, 
 Nor because at times I 'm worn 
 With gnawing doubt . . . but I sadly 
 Wish to say that still I love thee, 
 That wholly thine I am: hither come, О 
 hither ! 
 
 1828. 
 
/ $2 Poems of Love. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 IV. ioo. 
 
 The extinguished joy of crazy years 
 On me rests heavy, like dull debauch. 
 But of by-gone days the grief, like wine 
 In my soul the older, the stronger 4 grows. 
 Dark my path. Toil and pain promised are me 
 By the Future's roughened sea. 
 
 But not Death, О friends, I wish ! 
 But Life I wish : to think and suffer ; 
 Well I know, for me are joys in store 
 'Mid struggles, toils, and sorrows : 
 Yet 'gain at times shall harmony drink in 
 And tears I'll shed over Fancy's fruit, — 
 Yet mayhap at my saddened sunset 
 Love will beam with farewell and smile. 
 
 1830. 
 
Sorrow. 133 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 in. 69. 
 
 Ask not why with sad reflection 
 
 'Mid gayety I oft am darkened, 
 
 Why ever cheerless eyes I raise, 
 
 Why sweet life's dream not dear to me is ; 
 
 Ask not why with frigid soul 
 
 I joyous love no longer crave, 
 
 And longer none I call dear : 
 
 Who once has loved, not again can love ; 
 
 Who bliss has known, ne'er again shall know ; 
 
 For one brief moment to us 't is given : 
 
 Of youth, of joy, of tenderness 
 
 Is left alone the sadness. 
 
 1817. 
 
134 Poems of Love. 
 
 DESPAIR, 
 in. 41. 
 
 Dear my friend, we are now parted, 
 My soul 's asleep ; I grieve in silence. 
 Gleams the day behind the mountain blue, 
 Or rises the night with moon autumnal, — 
 Still thee I seek, my far off friend, 
 Thee alone remember I everywhere, 
 Thee alone in restless sleep I see. 
 Pauses my mind, unwittingly thee I call ; 
 Listens mine ear, then thy voice I hear. 
 
 And thou my lyre, my despair dost share, 
 Of sick my soul companion thou ! 
 Hollow is and sad the sound of thy string, 
 Grief's sound alone hast not forgot. . . . 
 Faithful lyre, with me grieve thou ! 
 Let thine easy note and careless 
 Sing of love mine and despair, 
 And while listening to thy singing 
 May thoughtfully the maidens sigh ! 
 
 1816. 
 
A Wish. 135 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 III. 38. 
 
 Slowly my days are dragging 
 
 And in my faded heart each moment doubles 
 
 All the sorrows of hopeless love 
 
 And heavy craze upsets me. 
 
 But I am silent. Heard not is my murmur. 
 
 Tears I shed . . . they are my consolation ; 
 
 My soul in sorrow steeped 
 
 Finds enjoyment bitter in them. 
 
 О flee, life's dream, thee not regret I ! 
 
 In darkness vanish, empty vision ! 
 
 Dear to me is of love my pain, 
 
 Let me die, but let me die still loving ! 
 
 1816. 
 
i$6 Poems of Love. 
 
 [RESIGNED LOVE.] 
 
 IV. 99- 
 
 Thee I loved ; not yet love perhaps is 
 
 In my heart entirely quenched 
 
 But trouble let it thee no more ; 
 
 Thee to grieve with nought I wish. 
 
 Silent, hopeless thee I loved, 
 
 By fear tormented, now by jealousy ; 
 
 So sincere my love, so tender, 
 
 May God the like thee grant from another. 
 
Love and Freedom. 137 
 
 [LOVE AND FREEDOM.] 
 
 in. 157. 
 
 Child of Nature and simple, 
 Thus to sing was wont I 
 Sweet the dream of freedom — 
 With tenderness my breast it rilled. 
 
 But thee I see, thee I hear — 
 And now ? Weak become I. 
 With freedom lost forever 
 With all my heart I bondage prize. 
 
 r 
 
138 Poems of Love. 
 
 [NOT AT ALL.] 
 
 IV. 118. 
 
 I thought forgotten has the heart 
 
 Of suffering the easy art ; 
 
 Not again can be, said I 
 
 Not again what once has been. 
 
 Of Love the sorrows gone were, 
 Now calm were my airy dreams. . . 
 But behold ! again they tremble 
 Beauty's mighty power before ! . . . 
 
Inspiring Love. 139 
 
 [INSPIRING LOVE.] 
 
 IV. 117. 
 
 The moment wondrous I remember 
 Thou before me didst appear 
 Like a flashing apparition, 
 Like a spirit of beauty pure. 
 
 'Mid sorrows of hopeless grief, 
 
 'Mid tumults of noiseful bustle, 
 
 Rang long to me thy tender voice, 
 
 Came dreams to me of thy lovely features. 
 
 Went by the years. The storm's rebellious 
 
 rush 
 The former dreams had scattered 
 And I forgot thy tender voice, 
 I forgot thy heavenly features. 
 
 In the desert, in prison's darkness, 
 Quietly my days were dragging ; 
 No reverence, nor inspiration, 
 Nor tears, nor life, nor love. 
 
;i40 Poems of Love. 
 
 But at last awakes my soul : 
 And again didst thou appear : 
 Like a flashing apparition, 
 Like a spirit of beauty pure. 
 
 And enraptured beats my heart, 
 And risen are for it again 
 Both reverence, and inspiration 
 And life, and tears, and love. 
 
 1825. 
 
The Graces. 141 
 
 [THE GRACES.] 
 
 in. 160. 
 
 Till now no faith I had in Graces : 
 Seemed strange to me their triple sight ; 
 Thee I see, and with faith am filled 
 Adoring now in one the three ! 
 
iPoems: ДОШсеИапимй. 
 
Poms; JSisailantous* 
 
 THE BIRDLET. 
 
 IV. 133. 
 
 In exile I sacredly observe 
 The custom of my fatherland : 
 I freedom to a birdlet give 
 On Spring's holiday serene. 
 And now I too have consolation: 
 Wherefore murmur against my God 
 When at least to one living being 
 I could of freedom make a gift ? 
 
 1823. 
 
146 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 IV. 45. 
 
 In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness 
 of the night 
 
 Sings above the rose from the east the nightin- 
 gale ; 
 
 But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it, 
 
 But under its lover's hymn waveth it and 
 slumbers. 
 
 Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold ? 
 Reflect, О bard, whither art thou striding ? 
 She neither listens, nor the bard she feels. 
 Thou gazest ? Bloom she does ; thou callest? — 
 Answer none she gives ! 
 
 1827. 
 
The Floweret. 147 
 
 THE FLOWERET. 
 
 iv. 95. 
 
 A floweret, withered, odorless 
 In a book forgot I find ; 
 And already strange reflection 
 Cometh into my mind. 
 
 Bloomed, where? when? In what spring? 
 And how long ago ? And plucked by whom ? 
 Was it by a strange hand ? Was it by a dear 
 
 hand? 
 And wherefore left thus here ? 
 
 Was it in memory of a tender meeting ? 
 Was it in memory of a fated parting ? 
 Was it in memory of a lonely walk ? 
 In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods ? 
 
 Lives he still ? Lives she still ? 
 And where their nook this very day? 
 Or are they too withered 
 Like unto this unknown floweret? 
 
 1828. 
 
148 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 THE HORSE, 
 
 IV. 271. 
 
 Why dost thou neigh, О 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. 
 
Пе Horse. 149 
 
 For soon the stern 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. 
 
 183 
 
150 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 то A BABE. 
 
 IV. 144. 
 
 Child, I dare not over thee 
 Pronounce a blessing ; 
 Thou art of consolation a quiet angel : 
 May then happy be thy lot. . . „ 
 
The Poet. 151 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 (IV. 2). 
 
 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. 
 
i $2 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 Wild and stern, rushes he, 
 Of tumult full and sound, 
 To the shores of desert wave, 
 Into the widely-whispering wood. 
 
 1827. 
 
To the Poet. 153 
 
 TO THE POET. 
 
 SONNET. 
 (IV. 9). 
 
 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, О 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. 
 
 1830. 
 
i$4 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 THE THREE SPRINGS. 
 
 IV. 134. 
 
 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 forgetful- 
 
 ness, 
 Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire. 
 
 1827. 
 
The Task. 155 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 IV. 151. 
 
 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. 
 
i $6 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 SLEEPLESSNESS. 
 
 IV. ioi. 
 
 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, О 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. 157 
 
 [QUESTIONINGS.] 
 
 IV. 98. 
 
 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. 
 
1 58 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 [CONSOLATION.] 
 
 IV. 142. 
 
 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. 159 
 
 [FRIENDSHIP.] 
 in. 201. 
 
 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 ! 
 
гбо Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 [FAME.] 
 
 III. Ю2. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 1824. 
 
The Angel. 161 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 IV. 108. 
 
 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. 
 
іб2 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 [HOME-SICKNESS.] 
 in. 131. 
 
 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. 163 
 
 [INSANITY.] 
 
 in. 149. 
 
 God grant 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. 
 
164 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 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 '11 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. 165 
 
 [DEATH-THOUGHTS.] 
 
 iv. 93. 
 
 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 
 
1 66 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 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. ібу 
 
 [RIGHTS.] 
 
 IV. io. 
 
 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 ! . . . . 
 
1 68 Poems : Miscellaneous. 
 
 THE GYPSIES. 
 
 IV. 157. 
 
 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, О 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 Delibasb. 169 
 
 THE DELIBASH. 
 
 IV. 155. 
 
 Cross-firing behind the hills : 
 Both camps watch, theirs and ours ; 
 In front of Cossaks on the hill 
 Dashes 'long brave Delibash 
 
 О Delibash, not to the line come nigh, 
 Do have mercy on thy life ; 
 Quick 4 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 ! 
 
Notes. 
 
Notes. 
 
 MY PEDIGREE. (Page 61.) 
 
 These lines owe their origin to a public attack on Push- 
 kin by Bulgarin, a literary magnate of those days. Bul- 
 garin disliked Pushkin and, therefore, saw no merit in his 
 poetry. But unable to argue against his poetry, he argued 
 against Pushkin's person, and abused the poet for his 
 fondness to refer to his ancient ancestry. Stung to the 
 quick by a childish paragraph in Bulgarin's organ, " The 
 Northern Bee," Pushkin wrote these lines. But on their 
 publication which, I think, took place some time after they 
 were written, though they went into circulation imme- 
 diately, they made much bad blood. The Menshchikofs 
 did not like to be reminded of the cakes their ancestor 
 sold, nor the Rasumofskys of the fact that their countship 
 was earned by the good voice of the first of that name. 
 And the Kutaissoffs did not like to be told that Count 
 Kutaissoff was originally Paul's shoe-black. The very pride 
 in his ancestors, which made Pushkin ridiculous in the 
 eyes of his enemies, made him forget the fact that selling 
 cakes and blacking shoes, even though they be an em- 
 peror's, is by no means a thing to be ashamed of ; and 
 that, even if it were a thing to be ashamed of, the de- 
 scendants of evil-doers are by no means responsible for 
 the deeds of their ancestors. . . . The poem, therefore, is 
 an excellent document, not only for the history of the 
 nobility of Russia, but also for that of poor Pushkin's 
 soul. 
 
174 Notes. 
 
 Nobleman by cross. There are two kinds of noblemen 
 in Russia : those who inherit their title, and those who ac- 
 quire it. Whoever attains a certain cross as a reward for 
 his service under the government (not, alas, the cross of 
 true nobility, Christ's cross !) becomes thereby a " noble- 
 man." 
 
 Our nobility but recent is: the more recent it, the nobler 
 4 is. This was written fifty years ago, and thousands of 
 miles away from here. But one would almost believe these 
 lines written in our day, and at no great distance from Com- 
 monwealth Avenue, — so true is it that man remains, after 
 all, the same in all climes, at all times. . . . 
 
 Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain. The butcher 
 Minin is here meant, who, with Prince Pozharsky, delivered 
 Moscow from the Poles just before the Romanoffs were 
 called to the throne. 
 
 We upon it laid our hands. Six Pushkins signed this 
 call, and two had to lay their hand to the paper, because 
 they could not write their own names. 
 
 Simply Pushkin, not Moussin. The Moussin-Push- 
 kins of that day were a very rich and influential family. 
 
 MY MONUMENT. (Page 64.) 
 
 In its present form, this poem did not appear till 1881. 
 After Pushkin's death it appeared only when altered by 
 Zhukofsky in several places. The Alexander Column 
 being the tallest monument in Russia, Pushkin, writing for 
 Russians, used that as an illustration ; but the govern- 
 ment could not let the sacrilege pass, — of a poefs monu- 
 ment ever being taller, even figuratively, than a Russian 
 emperor's. In 1837, therefore, the poet was made to say, 
 " Napoleon's column." The line in the fourth stanza, 
 which speaks of Freedom, was altered to " That I was 
 useful by the living charm of verse," and in this mutilated 
 
Notes. 1J5 
 
 form this stanza is engraved on the poet's monument in 
 Moscow, unveiled in 1880. 
 
 MY MUSE. (Page 66.) 
 
 I originally passed over this poem as unworthy of trans- 
 lation, because I thought it not universal enough ; because 
 it seemed to me to express not the human heart, but the 
 individual heart, — Pushkin's heart. But the great Byelin- 
 sky taught me better. He quotes these lines as a marvel 
 of classic, of Greek art. " See," he exclaims, " the Hel- 
 lenic, the artistic manner (and this is saying the same 
 thing) in which Pushkin has told us of his call, heard by 
 him even in the days of his youth. Yes, maugre the 
 happy attempts of Batushkof in this direction before 
 Pushkin's day, such verses had not been seen till Push- 
 kin in the Russian land ! " And Byelinsky is right. He 
 saw. The great critic is thus an eye-opener, because he 
 sees his author, and because seeing him he cannot help 
 loving him. For if men truly knew one another (assuming 
 them to be unselfish), they would love one another. . . . 
 A hater is blind though he sees ; a lover sees though he be 
 blind. See, also, about this piece, Introduction, § 4. 
 
 MY DEMON. (Page 67.) 
 
 To this poem Pushkin added a note, which he intended 
 to send to the periodical press, as if it were the comment of 
 a third person. Referring to the report that the poet had 
 a friend of his in mind when he wrote this poem, and used 
 Rayefsky as a model, he says : " It seems to me those who 
 believe this report are in error ; at least, I see in ' The 
 Demon' a higher. aim, a moral aim. Perhaps the bard 
 wished to typify Doubt. In life's best period, the heart? 
 not as yet chilled by experience, is open to everything 
 beautiful. It then is trustful and tender. But by-and-by 
 
іуб Notes. 
 
 the eternal contradictions of reality give birth to doubt in 
 the heart ; this feeling is indeed agonizing, but it lasts not 
 long. ... It disappears, but it carries away with it our 
 best and poetic prejudices of the spirit." [Are they best, 
 if they m-e prejudices ? Is illusion truly poetic ? — I. P.] 
 Not, therefore, in vain has Goethe the Great given the 
 name the Spirit of Denial to man's eternal enemy. And 
 Pushkin wished to typify the Spirit of Denial. 
 
 REGRET. (Page 69.) 
 See Introduction, §§ 16, 25. 
 
 THE BIRDLET. (Page 97.) 
 
 This piece is not found among Pushkin's Lyrical Poems. 
 It is a song taken from a longer Narrative Poem, called 
 " The Gypsies." 
 
 LOVE. (Page 113.) 
 
 This poem is Pushkin all over. In four lines he has 
 given a whole drama with a world of pathos and tender- 
 ness in it. These four lines give more instruction in the 
 art of story-telling than volumes on the " Art of Fiction." 
 A magazine writer, who of the same incidents would have 
 woven out some twenty pages (of which no fewer than 
 nineteen and three-quarters would have been writ for the 
 approval of check-book critic, rather than of the art critic), 
 would have really told less than Pushkin has here told, — 
 so true is the preacher's criticism on his own sermon : 
 " Madame, if it had been shorter by half, it would have 
 been twice as long ! " 
 
 JEALOUSY. (Page 114.) 
 Of this piece I have already spoken in the Preface, § 7. 
 
Notes. 177 
 
 IN AN ALBUM. (Page 116.) 
 
 This is an excellent example of Pushkin's sentiment, of 
 which I spoke in the Introduction, Chapter III. It is all 
 the more entitled to the consideration of Anglo-Saxon a 
 priori sentiment-haters (it is so easy to keep to a priori 
 judgments, they are so convenient ; they save discussion !) 
 because Pushkin wrote this piece when fully matured, at 
 the age of thirty, when his severe classic taste was already 
 formed. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. (Page 120.) 
 
 These lines are taken from the Narrative Poem, " The 
 Prisoner of the Caucasus." 
 
 SIGNS. (Page 124.) 
 
 Of the more-than-Egyptian number of plagues with which 
 poor Pushkin's soul was afflicted, superstition was one. He 
 believed in signs, and sometimes gave up a journey when 
 a hare ran across his road. Owing to this superstition 
 he once gave up a trip to St. Petersburg, which probably 
 would have cost him his life, had he made it. For on hear- 
 ing of the December rebellion, in which many of his friends 
 took part, he started for the capital, but the hare. . . . 
 
 ELEGY. (Page 132.) 
 
 The fourth volume of Pushkin's Works, in which this 
 poem was first published, struck Byelinsky with the pov- 
 erty of its contents. " But in the fourth volume of Push- 
 kin's Poems," says he, " there is one precious pearl which 
 reminds us of the song of yore, of the bard of yore. It 
 is the elegy, ' The extinguished joy of crazy years.' Yes ! 
 12 
 
, 7 8 
 
 Notes. 
 
 such an elegy can redeem not only a few tales, but even 
 the entire volume of poetry ! " . . . (Byelinsky's Works, 
 ii. 194.) 
 
 LOVE AND FREEDOM. (Page 137.) 
 
 In the original this poem is called, " To Countess N. V. 
 Kotshubey." 
 
 INSPIRING LOVE. (Page 139.) 
 In the original this piece is headed, " To A. P. Kern." 
 
 THE GRACES. (Page 141.) 
 Addressed to Princess S. A. Urussov. 
 
 TO THE POET. (Page 153.) 
 
 This is the only poem Turgenef quotes in his speech at 
 the unveiling of the Pushkin monument in 1880. " Of 
 course," he said, " you all know it, but I cannot withstand 
 the temptation to adorn my slim, meagre prosy speech 
 with this poetic gold." 
 
 THE TASK. (Page 155.) 
 
 Byelinsky, who has taught me to appreciate much in 
 Pushkin which I otherwise would not have appreciated, 
 speaks of this little piece as " especially excellent " among 
 Pushkin's anthological poems, written in hexameter, and 
 says, that a breath antique blows from them. Well, I 
 cannot agree with Byelinsky. There is, doubtless, a sen- 
 timentlet in the piece, — a germ ; but it is only a germ, 
 incomplete, immature. I would not have translated it 
 (since its beauty, whatever that be, it owes entirely to its 
 form, which is untranslatable), but for the sake of the 
 
Notes. іу9 
 
 reader, in justice to whom, a poem so highly thought of 
 by Byelinsky ought to be given, whatever my opinion 
 of it. 
 
 QUESTIONINGS. (Page 157.) 
 
 In the original this piece is headed, "26 May, 1828." 
 
 FAME. (Page 160.) 
 
 The first cantos of Eugene Onyegin were issued with 
 the " Dialogue between the Bookseller and the Poet " as 
 a preface. This poem is one of the arguments of the poet 
 in the dialogue ; and, as it is an independent song in itself, 
 I have not hesitated to treat it as such. 
 
 HOME-SICKNESS. (Page 162.) 
 
 In the original these lines are entitled, "To P. A. 
 Ossipova." 
 
 DEATH-THOUGHTS. (Page 165.) 
 In the original this poem is headed, " Stanzas." 
 
 RIGHTS. (Page 167.) 
 
 In the original this is called, " From VI. Pindemonte." 
 But this is an original piece by Pushkin ; at first he 
 called it, u From Alfred Musset." Evidently the censor- 
 ship was likely to pass it as a work of a foreign author 
 where it would not as one of Pushkin ; to his political 
 convictions Pushkin never, indeed, did dare to give free 
 expression. He never deliberately misled the government, 
 but he did at times lead it to believe more in his loyalty 
 than was strictly in accordance with the facts. 
 
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