RHYMES
FROM THE RUSSIAN

RHYMES
FROM THE RUSSIAN

BEING
FAITHFUL TRANSLATIONS OF SELECTIONS
FROM THE BEST
RUSSIAN POETS
PUSHKIN, LERMONTOF, NADSON,
NEKRASOF, COUNT A. TOLSTOI, TYOUTCHEF,
MAIKOF, LEBEDEF, FET, K. R., Etc.

BY
JOHN POLLEN, LL.D., T.C.D.
INDIAN CIVIL SERVICE

LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., Ltᴰ.
1891

(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)

TO
THE MARQUESS OF DUFFERIN AND AVA,
TO WHOSE EXAMPLE AND KIND WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT
THE AUTHOR TRACES THE SOURCE OF HIS
RUSSIAN STUDIES,
THIS LITTLE EFFORT IS GRATEFULLY
DEDICATED.

PREFACE.

The chief merit the Translator claims for this little effort is “faithfulness of translation.” He has endeavoured to translate every word and every thought of the Russian writer, and to avoid additions.

Most of the poems selected for translation are popular, not only amongst the higher classes of Russian society, but also with the Russian soldiery and peasantry, who are very fond of poetry, and amongst whom education has spread, and continues to spread, with marvellous rapidity.

The Translator trusts that this little volume may not only prove interesting to ordinary English readers wishing to get a general idea of Russian poetry, but may also be found of some service to Englishmen studying Russian, and Russians studying English.

J. POLLEN.
Sebastopol,
March 21, 1891.

CONTENTS.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF
VLADIMIR VLADISLAVLEF.

From my poor rhymes you turn your face,

From my allurements flee;

So shuns the vane the wind’s embrace,

And scorns his minstrelsy.

FROM LERMONTOF.

THE ANGEL.

Thro’ the midnight heavens an angel flew,

And a soft low song sang he,

And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds

Heard that holy melody.

He sang of the bliss of sinless souls

’Neath the tents of Eden-bowers;

Of God—the Great One—he sang; and unfeigned

Was his praise of the Godhead’s powers.

A little babe in his arms he bore,

For this world of woe and tears,

And the sound of his song in the soul of the child

Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.

And long languished she on this earth below,

With a wondrous longing filled,

But the world’s harsh songs could not change for her

The notes which that angel trilled.

THE VOYAGE.

Glitters a white, a lonely sail,

Where stoops the grey mist o’er the sea.

What does his distant search avail?

At home, unfound, what leaveth he?

Whistles the wind; the waves at play

Sport round the bending, creaking mast;

Ah! not for Fortune does he stray,

Nor yet from Fortune flees he fast.

’Neath him, like sapphire, gleams the sea;

O’er him, like gold, the sunlight glows;

But storms, rebellious, wooeth he,

As if in storms he’d find repose.

PRAYER.

In moments of life’s trial,

When sorrows crowd the soul,

A single prayer of wondrous power

From fervent lips I roll.

There dwells a force God-given

In harmony of sound;

In living words there breathes a charm

All holy and profound.

From soul, like burden, leaping,

Far off all doubting flies;

From prayers of faith with weeping

How light, how light we rise!

THANKSGIVING.

For all, for all, I render thanks to Thee—

For passion’s secret pangs and misery,

For burning tears, the poison of the kiss,

For warmth of soul wasted on emptiness,

For foeman’s hate, for friends’ malicious spleen,

For all by which in life I’ve cheated been.

But oh! dispose it so, that from this day

I may not long have need such thanks to pay.

ON DEATH OF PUSHKIN.

Silent the sounds of wondrous songs;

Their latest notes have pealed;

Narrow and dim his resting-place,

The singer’s lips are sealed.

DREAM.[1]

’Neath midday heat, in Dagestána’s Vale,

With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay;

From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale,

And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away.

Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes;

The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep;

The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops,

And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep.

A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers

An evening feast in my home—far away—

Where young and lovely women, crowned with flowers,

Conversed of me in accents light and gay.

But, in their happy talk not joining, one

Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed;

And oh!—the mystery knows God alone—

This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed.

She saw in vision Dagestána’s Vale,

Where on the slope a well-known body lay;

From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale,

And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This poem partakes of a prophecy. Lermontof was himself killed in a duel on the slopes of the Caucasus.

CLOUDS.
(AN EXPERIMENT IN RUSSIAN DACTYLS.)

Cloudlets ethereal wandering ceaselessly,

Floating in pearly chains over the azure deep;

Maybe, as even I, suffering banishment,[2]

Leaving your own dear North, southward perforce you sweep.

What is compelling you? Destiny’s ordinance?

Envy invisible? Open iniquity?

Maybe deeds criminal heavily press on you;

Maybe the slander of friendship’s obliquity.

No! you are simply aweary of fruitless fields;

Strangers to passions and strangers to punishment.

Frigid eternally, free everlastingly,

You have no country, and cannot know banishment!

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Lermontof was banished from St. Petersburg to the Caucasus.

PRAYER.
(AN EXPERIMENT IN RUSSIAN DACTYLS.)

Praying now earnestly, Mother of God, come I,

Bending before thy shrine radiant in brilliancy,

Not for salvation, or battle-eve benison,

Not with thanksgiving, or even repentancy.

Not for my own sad soul lost in the wilderness,

Soul of a pilgrim here wandering homelessly;

But for a maiden pure, whom I would trust to thee,

Fervid Protectress from cold inhumanity!

Circle with Fortune this maiden deserving it;

Grant her considerate friends on life’s pilgrimage,

Youth of bright buoyancy, age of reposefulness;

Grant to her sinless soul Hope’s happy peacefulness.

Then—when the farewell hour finally draweth nigh,—

Whether in morn’s hum, or silence of eventide,—

Send forth the best of thine angels to take to thy

Bosom of mercy her peerlessly perfect soul!

HOW WEARY! HOW DREARY!

How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s pain

In moments of sorrow of soul!

Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?

And o’er us the best years roll.

To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;

And for ever Love cannot remain.

Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace,

And all gladness and sorrow are vain.

The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweet

Will vanish at reason’s behest;

And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete—

Is a stupid and frivolous jest.

⁂

Alone I pass along the lonely road,

Thro’ gathering mist the pebbly pathway gleams;

The night is still;—the void remembers God,

And star vibrates to star with speaking beams.

A wondrous glory moves across the sky;

Soft sleeps the earth in dove-grey azure light.

Why aches my heart? Why troubled thus am I?

What wait I for, what grieve I for, this night?

No more from life can I expect to gain,

And for the “has been” it were vain to weep;

I simply seek repose, release from pain,

And fain would rest, forgetting all, in sleep.

But not the sleep which the cold tomb implies;

But rather would I rest for ages so

That in my breast the strength of life might rise

In gentle wavelets, heaving to and fro.

The while that in my ears by night and day,

A sweet voice sang of ceaseless love to me;

And o’er me leaned, greening in every spray

And faintly whispering, my dark cedar[3] tree.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Lit., “oak.”

⁂

One wave upon another leaps,

And splashes, murmuring loud;

So men on men, in rolling heaps,

Press on—a worthless crowd.

The waves prefer their cold free-will

To warmth the noonday gave;

Souls men desire to have, yet still

They’re colder than the wave.

BALLAD.
THE QUEEN OF THE SEA.

The young Prince is swimming his steed in the sea;

He heareth a voice: “Oh, Prince, look upon me!”

Loud snorteth the steed as he pricks up his ears;

He splashes the foam as he plunges and rears.

Again hears the Prince: “A king’s daughter I be;

Art thou willing to pass the whole evening with me?”

Behold, from the water a white hand extends,

And catches the reins by their silk tassel-ends.

To the white hand a young face there quickly succeeds;

In her locks are entangled the twisted seaweeds.

Her blue eyes are gleaming with love’s wild delight;

On her bosom the foam-drops like pearls sparkle bright.

Then thinketh the Prince, “You must stay, lady fair;”

And adroitly he windeth his hand in her hair.

He has caught her. The hand of the warrior’s strong;

She weeps and she prays as they struggle along.

The Prince to the shore swimmeth on in his pride;

He lands, and loud calls he his friends to his side.

“Ho! come, my brave comrades, and look at my prey.

Behold how she struggles! She’ll ne’er get away.

“Why stand ye a terrified group on the shore?

Ye have ne’er seen a beauty like this one before.”

Back glanceth the Prince, with delight, on his prize;

But the proud look of triumph soon fades from his eyes.

With a shudder he sees on the golden sand trail

A fearsome sea-monster, with hideous green tail—

A tail covered over with scales like a snake,

Its quivering coils in death-agony shake.

The foam from her forehead is pouring in streams,

And the darkness of death from her closing eye gleams;

Her pale hands are clutching the sands of the sea,

And of purport unknown a reproach whispers she.

Afar rides the Prince—deep in thought rideth he;

For long years he’ll remember “the Queen of the Sea.”

THE PROPHET.

Since the Eternal Judge to me

The Prophets’ power of vision lent,

In human eyes I read, and see

Pages of vice and folly blent.

To preach of love when I began,

Teaching of truth and purity,

My neighbours all, like devils, ran

And took up stones to throw at me.

Upon my head I ashes cast,

And from the towns, a beggar, fled;

And now I dwell in deserts vast,

Just like the birds, by God’s hand fed.

Keeping the laws of Providence,

The brute creation serveth me;

The stars hear me with confidence,

With bright rays playing joyously.

When through the noisy city’s way

I hurry onwards, in distraction,

The old men to the children say,

With smile of selfish satisfaction—

“Behold, from him a warning take!

He was too proud with us to dwell;

The fool! That God through his lips spake—

This was the tale he strove to tell.

“Look, children! on him cast your eyes!

How sad he is! how thin and pallid!

How naked, and how poor and squalid!

How all the wretched man despise!”

WHEN—THEN.

When waves of shadow fret the yellowing fields;

When freshly hum the woods to Zephyr’s play;

When on the garden walls the reddening plums,

Hiding themselves, in leafy ambush sway;

When freshly washed in heavy-scented dews

(While evening red or golden morning glows),

From ’neath the hedge to me, with welcoming bows,

Her silver head the waving lily shows;

When sports the snow-cold runlet down the dale,

Plunging my restless thoughts in pensive dreams,

Whispering to me some deep mysterious tale

Of that reposeful source from whence it streams;—

Then in my soul calm peace succeeds alarm,

Upon my brow dissolves the furrowed frown;

On earth I catch of happiness the charm;

From heaven I see the Godhead looking down.

MY NATIVE LAND.

I love my land, but with a love so strange

That reason over it no victory knows.

Her glory, bought in bloodshed’s stern exchange,

Her ever-confident and proud repose,

The sacred annals of her ancient might,

Arouse in me no fancies of delight.

Nay! but I love (the why I cannot say)

Her cold steppes in their silent majesty,

Her waving woodlands in their boundless play,

Her flooded rivers spreading like the sea.

I love to drive adown her country lanes,

With longing glance piercing the shades of night,

Sighing for rest, to catch thro’ distant panes

The glimmering of some mournful village light.

I love to see the smoke of smouldering stalk;

To watch the waggons o’er the wide waste wend;

Or, on hillside, ’mid yellowing fields, to mark

The pair of birch trees their white arms extend.

With a delight, unknown except to few,

Love I to note the well-filled threshing-floor,

The peasant’s hut, half hidden in the straw,

The shutters with quaint carvings covered o’er;

And with no less delight, on holiday,

From dewy eve till noon of night, to gaze

Upon the dance, with stamp and whistling gay,

Amid the roar the merry rustics raise.

TO ——.

We stand apart, yet still thy pictured face

I fondly press to this sad heart of mine—

A vision pale, of happiest years a trace,

My soul rejoices in this gift of thine.

For, though to passions new I’m now resigned,

That once-loved face I cannot cease to love;

The shrine forsaken still retains the shrined;

O’erthrown the image, yet God reigns above.

THE DAGGER.

Well do I love thee, my dagger of steel,

My comrade so bright and so cold!

Thou wast forged in hate by a Georgian fell,