Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol 58, No. 357, July 1845
Caucasus
Beneath me the peaks of the Caucasus lie,
My gaze from the snow-bordered cliff I am bending;
From her sun-lighted eyry the Eagle ascending
Floats movelessly on in a line with mine eye.
I see the young torrent's first leap towards the ocean,
And the cliff-cradled lawine essay its first motion.
Beneath me the clouds in their silentness go,
The cataract through them in thunder down-dashing,
Far beneath them bare peaks in the sunny ray flashing,
Weak moss and dry shrubs I can mark yet below.
Dark thickets still lower – green meadows are blooming,
Where the throstle is singing, and reindeer are roaming.
Here man, too, has nested his hut, and the flocks
On the long grassy slopes in their quiet are feeding,
And down to the valley the shepherd is speeding,
Where Arágva gleams out from her wood-crested rocks.
And there in his crags the poor robber is hiding,
And Térek in anger is wrestling and chiding.
Like a fierce young Wild Beast, how he bellows and raves,
Like that Beast from his cage when his prey he espieth;
'Gainst the bank, like a Wrestler, he struggleth and plyeth,
And licks at the rock with his ravening waves.
In vain, thou wild River! dumb cliffs are around thee,
And sternly and grimly their bondage hath bound thee.
To those who measure the value of a poem, less by the pretension and ambitiousness of its form, than by the completeness of its execution and the skill with which the leading idea is developed, we think that the graceful little production which we are now about to present to the reader, will possess very considerable interest. It is, it is true, no more important a thing than a mere song; but the naturalness and unity of the fundamental thought, and the happy employment of what is undoubtedly one of the most effective artifices at the command of the lyric writer – we mean repetition – render the following lines worthy of the universal admiration which they have obtained in the original, and may not be devoid of charm in the translation: —
To * * *
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.
By weary agonies surrounded,
'Mid toil, 'mid mean and noisy care,
Long in mine ear thy soft voice sounded,
Long dream'd I of thy features fair.
Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger,
Scattering mine early dreams to air,
And thy soft voice I heard no longer —
No longer saw thy features fair.
In exile's silent desolation
Slowly dragg'd on the days for me —
Orphan'd of life, of inspiration,
Of tears, of love, of deity.
I woke – once more my heart was beating —
Once more thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
My heart has found its consolation —
All has revived once more for me —
And vanish'd life, and inspiration,
And tears, and love, and deity.
The versification of the following little poem is founded on a system which Púshkin seems to have looked upon with peculiar favour, as he has employed the same metrical arrangement in by far the largest proportion of his poetical works. So gracefully and so easily, indeed, has he wielded this metre, and with so flexible, so delicate, and so masterly a hand, that we could not refrain from attempting to imitate it in our English version; for we considered that it is impossible to say how much of the peculiar character of a poet's writings depends upon the colouring, or rather the touch– if we may borrow a phrase from the vocabulary of the critic in painting – of the metre. Undoubtedly a poet is the best judge not only of the kind, but of the degree of the effect which he wishes to produce upon his reader; and there may be, between the thoughts which he desires to embody, and the peculiar harmonies in which he may determine to clothe those thoughts, analogies and sympathies too delicate for our grosser ears; or, at least, if not too subtle and refined for our ears to perceive, yet far too delicate for us to define, or exactly to appreciate. Moved by this reasoning, we have always preferred to follow, as nearly as we could, the exact versification, and even the most minute varieties of tone and metrical accentuation. Inattention to this point is undoubtedly the stumbling-block of translators in general; of the dangerous consequences of such inattention, it is not necessary to give any elaborate proof. How much, we may ask, does not the poetry of Dante, for instance, lose, by being despoiled of that great source of its peculiar effect springing from the employment of the terza rima! It is in vain to say, that it is enormously difficult to produce the terza rima in English. To translate the "gran padre Alighier" into English worthily, the terza rima must be employed, whatever be the obstacles presented by the dissimilarities existing between the Italian and English languages.
The Mob
"Procul este, profani!"
A Poet o'er his glowing lyre
A wild and careless hand had flung.
The base, cold crowd, that nought admire,
Stood round, responseless to his fire,
With heavy eye and mocking tongue.
"And why so loudly is he singing?"
('Twas thus that idiot mob replied,)
"His music in our ears is ringing;
But whither flows that music's tide?
What doth it teach? His art is madness!
He moves our soul to joy or sadness.
A wayward necromantic spell!
Free as the breeze his music floweth,
But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth,
What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"
Poet. – Cease, idiot, cease thy loathsome cant!
Day-labourer, slave of toil and want!
I hate thy babble vain and hollow.
Thou art a worm, no child of day:
Thy god is Profit – thou wouldst weigh
By pounds the Belvidere Apollo.
Gain – gain alone to thee is sweet.
The marble is a god! … what of it
Thou count'st a pie-dish far above it —
A dish wherein to cook thy meat!
Mob. – But, if thou be'st the Elect of Heaven,
The gift that God has largely given,
Thou shouldst then for our good impart,
To purify thy brother's heart.
Yes, we are base, and vile, and hateful,
Cruel, and shameless, and ungrateful —
Impotent and heartless tools,
Slaves, and slanderers, and fools.
Come then, if charity doth sway thee,
Chase from our hearts the viper-brood;
However stern, we will obey thee;
Yes, we will listen, and be good!
Poet. – Begone, begone! What common feeling
Can e'er exist 'twixt ye and me?
Go on, your souls in vices steeling;
The lyre's sweet voice is dumb to ye:
Go! foul as reek of charnel-slime,
In every age, in every clime,
Ye aye have felt, and yet ye feel,
Scourge, dungeon, halter, axe, and wheel.
Go, hearts of sin and heads of trifling,
From your vile streets, so foul and stifling,
They sweep the dirt – no useless trade!
But when, their robes with ordure staining,
Altar and sacrifice disdaining,
Did e'er your priests ply broom and spade?
'Twas not for life's base agitation
That we were born – for gain nor care —
No – we were born for inspiration,
For love, for music, and for prayer!
The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may, perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the original exceedingly well adapted to be sung – one of the highest merits of this class of poetry – for all ancient ballads, in every language throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted; and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these ancient compositions – the first lispings of the Muse – can only be successful in proportion as they possess the essential and characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original, distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse: —
The Black Shawl
Like a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish – this heart knows them all.
When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.
That fair one caress'd me – my life! oh, 'twas bright,
But it set – that fair day – in a hurricane night.
One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew.
"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And she hath betray'd thee – thy young Grecian maid."
I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold.
"Ho! my charger – my charger!" we mount, we depart,
And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.
On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood —
I was faint – and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:
By the maiden's lone window I listen'd, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.
The light darken'd round me – then flash'd my good blade…
The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.
On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.
I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream…
Thus perish'd the maiden – thus perish'd my dream.
This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore —
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.
The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.
Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light —
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.
Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish – this heart knows them all!
The pretty lines which we are now about to offer, are rather remarkable as being written in the manner of the ancient national songs of Russia, than for any thing very new in the ideas, or very striking in the expression. They possess, however – at least in the original – a certain charm arising from simplicity and grace.
The Rose
Where is our rose, friends?
Tell if ye may!
Faded the rose, friends,
The Dawn-child of Day.
Ah, do not say,
Such is youth's fleetness!
Ah, do not say,
Thus fades life's sweetness!
No, rather say,
I mourn thee, rose – farewell!
Now to the lily-bell
Flit we away.
Among the thousand-and-one compositions, in all languages, founded upon the sublime theme of the downfall and death of Napoleon, there are, we think, very few which have surpassed, in weight of thought, in splendour of diction, and in grandeur of versification, Púshkin's noble lyric upon this subject. The mighty share which Russia had in overthrowing the gigantic power of the greatest of modern conquerors, could not fail of affording to a Russian poet a peculiar source of triumphant yet not too exulting inspiration; and Púshkin, in that portion of the following ode in which he is led more particularly to allude to the part played by his country in the sublime drama, whose catastrophe was the ruin of Bonaparte's blood-cemented empire, has given undeniable proof of his possessing that union of magnanimity and patriotism, which is not the meanest characteristic of elevated genius. While the poet gives full way to the triumphant feelings so naturally inspired by the exploits of Russian valour, and by the patient fortitude of Russian policy, he wisely and nobly abstains on indulging in any of those outbursts of gratified revenge and national hatred which deform the pages of almost all – poets, and even historians – who have written on this colossal subject.
Napoleon
The wondrous destiny is ended,
The mighty light is quench'd and dead;
In storm and darkness hath descended
Napoleon's sun, so bright and dread.
The captive King hath burst his prison —
The petted child of Victory;
And for the Exile hath arisen
The dawning of Posterity.
O thou, of whose immortal story
Earth aye the memory shall keep,
Now, 'neath the shadow of thy glory
Rest, rest, amid the lonely deep!
A grave sublime … nor nobler ever
Couldst thou have found … for o'er thine urn
The Nations' hate is quench'd for ever,
And Glory's beacon-ray shall burn.
There was a time thine eagles tower'd
Resistless o'er the humbled world;
There was a time the empires cower'd
Before the bolt thy hand had hurl'd:
The standards, thy proud will obeying,
Flapp'd wrath and woe on every wind —
A few short years, and thou wert laying
Thine iron yoke on human kind.
And France, on glories vain and hollow,
Had fixed her frenzy-glance of flame —
Forgot sublimer hopes, to follow
Thee, Conqueror, thee – her dazzling shame!
Thy legions' swords with blood were drunken —
All sank before thine echoing tread;
And Europe fell – for sleep was sunken,
The sleep of death – upon her head.
Thou mightst have judged us, but thou wouldst not!
What dimm'd thy reason's piercing light,
That Russian hearts thou understoodst not,
From thine heroic spirit's height?
Moscow's immortal conflagration
Foreseeing not, thou deem'dst that we
Would kneel for peace, a conquer'd nation —
Thou knew'st the Russ … too late for thee!
Up, Russia! Queen of hundred battles,
Remember now thine ancient right!
Blaze, Moscow! – Far shall shine thy light!
Lo! other times are dawning o'er us:
Be blotted out, our short disgrace!
Swell, Russia, swell the battle chorus!
War! is the watchword of our race!
Lo! how the baffled leader seizeth,
With fetter'd hands, his Iron Crown —
A dread abyss his spirit freezeth!
Down, down he goes, to ruin down!
And Europe's armaments are driven,
Like mist, along the blood-stain'd snow —
That snow shall melt 'neath summer's heaven,
With the last footstep of the foe.
'Twas a wild storm of fear and wonder,
When Europe woke and burst her chain;
The accursed race, like scatter'd thunder,
After the tyrant fled amain.
And Nemesis a doom hath spoken,
The Mighty hears that doom with dread:
The wrongs thou'st done shall now be wroken,
Tyrant, upon thy guilty head!
Thou shalt redeem thy usurpation,
Thy long career of war and crime,
In exile's eating desolation,
Beneath a far and stranger clime.
And oft the midnight sail shall wander
By that lone isle, thy prison-place,
And oft a stranger there shall ponder,
And o'er that stone a pardon trace,
Where mused the Exile, oft recalling
The well-known clang of sword and lance,
The yells, Night's icy ear appalling;
His own blue sky – the sky of France;
Where, in his loneliness forgetting
His broken sword, his ruin'd throne,
With bitter grief, with vain regretting,
On his fair Boy he mused alone.
But shame, and curses without number,
Upon that reptile head be laid,
Whose insults now shall vex the slumber
Of him – that sad discrowned shade!
No! for his trump the signal sounded,
Her glorious race when Russia ran;
His hand, 'mid strife and battle, founded
Eternal liberty for man!
The next specimen for which we have to request the indulgence of our readers, is a little composition of a very different and much less ambitious character. The idea is simple enough, and not, we think, entirely devoid of originality – the primary object of every translator in the selection of the subjects on which he is to exercise his dexterity.
The Storm
See, on yon rock, a maiden's form,
Far o'er the wave a white robe flashing,
Around, before the blackening storm,
On the loud beach the billows dashing;
Along the waves, now red, now pale,
The lightning-glare incessant gleameth;
Whirling and fluttering in the gale,
The snowy robe incessant streameth;
Fair is that sea in blackening storm,
And fair that sky with lightnings riven,
But fairer far that maiden form,
Than wave, or flash, or stormy heaven!
We now come to one of the most remarkable lyric productions of our Poet's genius, the "General;" and in order that our readers may be enabled to understand and appreciate this exquisite little poem, we shall preface it with a few remarks of an explanatory character; as the details, at least, of the events upon which it is founded may not be so generally known in England as they are in Russia. Our English readers, however, are doubtless sufficiently familiar with the history of the great campaign of the year 1812, which led to the burning of Moscow, and to the consequent annihilation of the mighty army which Napoleon led to perish in the snows of Russia, to remember one remarkable episode connected with that most important campaign. They remember that one of the Russian armies was placed under the command of Field-marshal Barclay de Tolly, a general descended from an ancient Scottish family which had been settled for some generations in Russia, but who was in every respect to be considered as a native Russian, being born a subject of the Tsar, and having, during a long life of service in the Russian army, gradually reached the highest military rank, and acquired a well-earned and universal reputation as an able strategist and a brave man. The mode of operations determined on at the beginning of this most momentous struggle, and persevered in throughout by the Russians, with a patience and steadiness no less admirable than the wisdom of the combinations on which they were founded, was a purely defensive system of tactics. The event amply demonstrated the soundness of the principles upon which those operations were based; for while Napoleon was gradually attracted into the interior of the country by armies which perpetually retired before him without giving him the opportunity of coming to a general action, the autumn was gradually passing away, and the flames of Moscow only served to light up, for the French army, the beginning of their hopeless retreat through a country now totally laid waste, and covered with the snows of a Russian winter. This mode of operations, however, was by no means likely to please the population of Russia, infuriated by the long unaccustomed presence of a hostile army within their sacred frontier, and worked up by all the circumstances of the invasion to the highest pitch of patriotic enthusiasm. Unable to appreciate the value of what must have appeared to them a timid and pusillanimous policy, they overwhelmed Barclay de Tolly with violent accusations of cowardice, and even of treachery; rendered the more plausible to the mind of the ignorant, by the circumstance of their object being a foreigner – or at least of foreign blood. So violent ultimately became these accusations, that although the Field-marshal continued to enjoy the highest confidence and esteem of his sovereign, it was found expedient to allow him to resign the chief command, in which he was succeeded by Kutúzoff. Barclay de Tolly, during the greater part of the campaign, fought as a simple general of division, in which character (as Púshkin describes) he took part in the great battle of Borodíno.
Barclay must still be considered as one of those distinguished persons to whose memory justice has never been entirely done; and to do this justice was Púshkin's generous task in the noble lines which follow these remarks. No traveller has ever visited the winter palace of St Petersburg without having been struck with the celebrated "Hall of Marshals," which forms one of its most imposing features. In this magnificent room are placed the portraits (chiefly painted by Dawe, an English artist, who passed the greater part of his life in Russia) of the Russian generals who figured in that great campaign; and among them is to be found, of course, the "counterfeit presentment" of Barclay de Tolly, painted, as the field-marshals are in every case in this gallery of portraits, at full length. With respect to the versification of this and several other poems which we have selected, the English reader will not perhaps at first remark that it is nothing more than the measure used by old Drayton in the Polyolbion, and one in which a great deal of the earlier English poetry is written. It is very favourite measure of our Russian poet, who has, however, increased, in some degree, its difficulty for an English versifier, by introducing a great number of double terminations. It will be found, indeed, that these double rhymes are as numerous as the single or monosyllabic ones.
The General
In the Tsar's palace stands a hall right nobly builded;
Its walls are neither carved, nor velvet-hung, nor gilded,
Nor here beneath the glass doth pearl or diamond glow;
But wheresoe'er ye look, around, above, below,
The quick-eyed Painter's hand, now bold, now softly tender,
From his free pencil here hath shed a magic splendour.
Here are no village nymphs, no dewy forest-glades,
No fauns with giddy cups, no snowy-bosom'd maids,
No hunting-scene, no dance; but cloaks, and plumes, and sabres,
And faces sternly still, and dark with hero-labours.
The Painter's art hath here in glittering crowd portray'd
The chiefs who Russia's line to victory array'd;
Chiefs in that great Campaign attired in fadeless glory
Of the year Twelve, that aye shall live in Russian story.
Here oft in musing mood my silent footstep strays,
Before these well-known forms I love to stop and gaze,
And dream I hear their voice, 'mid battle-thunder ringing.
Some of them are no more; and some, with faces flinging
Upon the canvass still Youth's fresh and rosy bloom,
Are wrinkled now and old, and bending to the tomb
The laurel-wreathed brow.But chiefly One doth win me
'Mid the stern throng. With new thoughts swelling in me
Before that One I stand, and cannot lightly brook
To take mine eye from him. And still, the more I look,
The more within my breast is bitterness awaked.
He's painted at full length. His brow, austere and naked,
Shines like a fleshless skull, and on it ye may mark
A mighty weight of woe. Around him – all is dark;
Behind, a tented field. Tranquil and stern he raises
His mournful eye, and with contemptuous calmness gazes.
Be't that the artist here embodied his own thought,
When on the canvass thus the lineaments he caught,
Or guided and inspired by some unknown Possession —
I know not: Dawe has drawn the man with this expression.
Unhappy chief! Alas, thy cup was full of gall;
Unto a foreign land thou sacrificedst all.
The savage mob's dull glance of hate thou calmly balkedst,
With thy great thoughts alone and silently thou walkedst;
The people could not brook thy foreign-sounding name,
Pursued thee with its yell, and piled thy head with shame,
And by thy very hand though saved from ill and danger,
Mock'd at thy sacred age – thou hoary-headed stranger!
And even he, whose soul could read thy noble heart,
To please that idiot mob, blamed thee with cruel art…
And long with patient faith, defying doubt and terror,
Thou heldest on unmoved, spite of a people's error;
And, e'er thy race was run, wert forced at last to yield
The well-earned laurel-wreath of many a bloody field,
Fame, power, and deep-thought plans; and with thy sword beside thee
Within a regiment's ranks, alone, obscure, to hide thee,
And there, a veteran chief, like some young sentinel,
When first upon his ear rings the ball's whistling knell,
Thou rushedst 'mid the fire, a warrior's death desiring —
In vain! —
O men! O wretched race! O worthy tears and laughter!
Priests of the moment's god, ne'er thinking of hereafter!
How oft among ye, men! a mighty one is seen,
Whom the blind age pursues with insults mad and mean,
But gazing on whose face, some future generation
Shall feel, as I do now, regret and admiration!