Part II

.; _To God_, _The Storm_, in William D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_, Philadelphia, 1849; _The Stream of Time_, in J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_; _Drowning_, by N. H. Dole; _Ode to the Deity_, by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2; _Ode to God_, by N. H. Dole, in The Chautauquan, vol. x; _On the Death of Meshcherski_, in C. E. Turner’s _Studies in Russian Literature_, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.

ODE TO THE DEITY

O Thou infinite in being; Living ’midst the change of all; Thou eternal through time’s fleeing; Formless--Three-in-one withal! Spirit filling all creation, Who hast neither source nor station; Whom none reach, howe’er they plod; Who with Thine existence fillest, Claspest, mouldest as Thou willest, Keepest all; whom we call--God!

Though the lofty mind could measure Deepest seas, and count the sand, Of the starry rays the treasure, Thou no number hast, no strand! Highest souls by Thee created, To Thy service consecrated, Ne’er could trace Thy counsels high; Soon as thought to Thee aspireth, In Thy greatness it expireth, Moment in eternity.

Thou didst call the ancient chaos From eternity’s vast sea: On Thyself, ere time did ray us, Thou didst found eternity. By Thyself Thyself sustaining, From Thyself unaided shining, Thou art Light--light flows from Thee; By Thy words all things creating, Thy creation permeating, Thou wast, art and aye shalt be.

All existence Thou containest In Thee, quick’nest with Thy breath; End to the beginning chainest; And Thou givest life through death. Life as sparks spring from the fire, Suns are born from Thee, great sire: As, in cold clear wintry day, Spangles of the frost shine, sparkling, Turning, wavering, glittering, darkling, Shine the stars beneath Thy ray.

All the million lights, that wander Silent through immensity, Thy behests fulfil, and squander Living rays throughout the sky. But those lamps of living fire, Crystals soaring ever higher, Golden waves in rich array, Wondrous orbs of burning ether, Or bright worlds that cling together, Are to Thee as night to day.

Like a drop in sea before Thee Is the firmament on high: What’s the universe of glory, And before Thee what am I? In yon vast aërial ocean Could I count those worlds in motion, Adding millions to them--aught I could fancy or decipher, By Thy side is but a cipher; And before Thee I am--naught!

Naught! And yet in me Thou rayest, By Thy gift and through Thy Son: In me Thou Thyself portrayest, As in one small drop the sun. Naught! Yet life I feel throughout me, And, content with naught about me, Upward fly with eager heart. That Thou art, my soul supposes, Tries, and with this reas’ning closes: “Sure I am, hence Thou too art.”

Yes, Thou art--all nature tells me; Whispers back my heart the thought; Reason now to this impels me: Since Thou art, I am not naught! Part of Thine entire creation, Set in nature’s middle station By Thine order I abide; Where Thou endest forms terrestrial And beginnest souls celestial, Chains of beings by me tied.

I’m the link of worlds existing, Last high grade of matter I, Centre of all life subsisting, First touch of divinity. Death to dust my body sunders: In my mind I wield the thunders. I’m a king, a slave to Thee: I’m a worm, a god! Whence hither Came I, wonderful? Oh, whither? By myself I could not be.

Thine am I, Thou great Creator, Outcome of Thy wisdom sole; Fount of life, blest conservator; Of my soul the king and soul! Needful to Thy just decreeing Was it that my deathless being Pass to Thee through death’s abyss: That my soul, in body vested, Wend, by death refined and tested, Father, to Thy deathlessness.

Traceless One, unfathomable! Now I cannot see Thy face: My imagining’s too feeble E’en Thy shadow here to trace; But, if we must sing Thy glory, Feeble mortals, to adore Thee In a worthy attitude, We must rise to Thee to wreathe Thee, Lost in distance far beneath Thee, And--shed tears of gratitude.

--Translated by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2.

MONODY ON PRINCE MESHCHÉRSKI[147]

O iron tongue of Time, with thy sharp metallic tone, Thy terrible voice affrights me: Each beat of the clock summons me, Calls me and hurries me to the grave. Scarcely have I opened my eyes upon the world, Ere Death grinds his teeth, And with his scythe, that gleams like lightning, Cuts off my days, which are but grass.

Not one of the horned beasts of the field, Not a single blade of grass escapes, Monarch and beggar alike are food for the worm. The noxious elements feed the grave, And Time effaces all human glory; As the swift waters rush towards the sea, So our days and years flow into Eternity, And empires are swallowed up by greedy Death.

We crawl along the edge of the treacherous abyss, Into which we quickly fall headlong: With our first breath of life we inhale death, And are only born that we may die. Stars are shivered by him, And suns are momentarily quenched, Each world trembles at his menace, And Death unpityingly levels all.

The mortal scarcely thinks that he can die, And idly dreams himself immortal, When Death comes to him as a thief, And in an instant robs him of his life. Alas! where fondly we fear the least, There will Death the sooner come; Nor does the lightning-bolt with swifter blast Topple down the towering pinnacle.

Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight, Meshchérski, where hast thou hidden thyself? Thou hast left the realms of light, And withdrawn to the shores of the dead; Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us. Where is it? It is there. Where is there? We know not. We can only weep and sob forth, Woe to us that we were ever born into the world!

They who are radiant with health, Love and joy and peace, Feel their blood run cold And their souls to be fretted with woe. Where but now was spread a banquet, there stands a coffin: Where but now rose mad cries of revelry, There resounds the bitter wailing of mourners; And over all keeps Death his watch,--

Watches us one and all,--the mighty Tsar Within whose hands are lodged the destinies of a world; Watches the sumptuous Dives, Who makes of gold and silver his idol-gods; Watches the fair beauty rejoicing in her charms; Watches the sage, proud of his intellect; Watches the strong man, confident in his strength; And, even as he watches, sharpens the blade of his scythe.

O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling! O Man, thou strange mixture of grandeur and of nothingness! To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth: To-day buoyed up with cheating hope, And to-morrow, where art thou, Man? Scarce an hour of triumph allowed thee Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of Chaos, And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run.

Like a dream, like some sweet vision, Already my youth has vanished quite. Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway, Gladness no more, as once, entrances me, My mind is no longer free and fanciful, And all my happiness is changed. I am troubled with a longing for fame; I listen; the voice of fame now calls me.

But even so will manhood pass away, And together with fame all my aspirations. The love of wealth will tarnish all, And each passion in its turn Will sway the soul and pass. Avaunt, happiness, that boasts to be within our grasp! All happiness is but evanescent and a lie: I stand at the gate of Eternity.

To-day or to-morrow we must die, Perfílev, and all is ended. Why, then, lament or be afflicted That thy friend did not live for ever? Life is but a momentary loan from Heaven: Spend it then in resignation and in peace, And with a pure soul Learn to kiss the chastening rod.

--From C. E. Turner’s _Studies in Russian Literature_, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.

FELÍTSA[148]

Godlike queen of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,[149] whose incomparable wisdom discovered the true path for the young Tsarévich Khlor, by which to climb the high mountain where grows the rose without prickles, where virtue dwells that captivates my soul and my mind! Oh, teach me how to find it!

Instruct me, Felítsa, how to live voluptuously, yet justly; how to tame the storm of passions, and be happy in the world. Your voice enthuses me, your son guides me, but I am weak to follow them. Disturbed by worldly cares, I control myself to-day, to-morrow am a slave of my caprices.

You do not emulate your Murzas,[150] and frequently go on foot; the simplest food is served at your table. You disdain your rest, and read and write by the tallow dip, and from your pen flows bliss to all the mortals.[151] Nor do you play cards, like me, from morning until morning.[152]

You do not care overmuch for masquerades, and do not set your foot into a club. You keep old customs and habits, and make no Don Quixote of yourself. You do not saddle the steed of Parnassus,[153] do not attend the séances, to see spirits,[154] do not go to the East[155] from your throne; but, walking on the path of humility, your gracious soul passes an even tenor of useful days.

But I sleep until noon, smoke tobacco and drink coffee. I change the work-days into holidays, and live in a whirl of chimerical thoughts: I now take booty from the Persians, now direct my arrows to the Turks; now, imagining myself to be the Sultan, I make the world tremble with my looks; or, suddenly attracted by a sumptuous garment, I hasten to the tailor for a new caftan.[156]

Or I am at a sumptuous feast, where they celebrate in my honour, where the table sparkles with its silver and gold, where there are a thousand different courses,--here the famous Westphalian bacon, there slices of Astrakhán fish, there stand the pilau and the cakes,--I drink champagne after my waffles and forget everything in the world ’midst wine, sweetmeats and perfumes.

Or, ’midst a beautiful grove, in an arbour, where the fountain plashes, by the sound of a sweet-voiced harp, where the zephyr scarcely breathes, where everything inclines to luxury, and entices the mind to joy, and the blood becomes now languid, now flows warm, inclining upon a velvet divan, I rouse the tender feelings of a young maiden, and inspire her heart with love.

Or, in a magnificent tandem, in a gilded English carriage, I drive with a dog, a fool, or friend, or fair maiden to the Swings, or stop at the taverns to drink mead; or, when I get tired of that, for I am inclined to change, fly, with my cap posed jauntily, on a mettled steed.

Or I delight my soul with music and singers, the organ and flute, or boxing and the dance.[157] Or, dropping all care of business, go on the chase, and take pleasure in the barking of the hounds[158]; or, on the banks of the Nevá, enjoy at night the sound of horns and the rowing of agile oarsmen.[159]

Or, staying at home, pass my time playing “Old Maid” with my wife; or we climb together into the dove-cot, or, at times, play Blindman’s Buff with her, or sváyka,[160] or have her examine my head; or I love to pore over books, to enlighten my mind and heart, that is, I read _Pulicane_ and _Bovo_,[161] or yawn and fall asleep over the Bible.

Such are my debauches, Felítsa! But the whole world resembles me, no matter if one passes for a sage: every man is a living lie. We travel not by the paths of light, we run after the whims of pleasure. ’Twixt the Indolent and the Choleric,[162] ’twixt vanity and vice, one seldom finds the straight road to virtue.

Suppose we have found it! How are we weak mortals not to blunder, where even Reason stumbles and follows after passions, where learned ignoramuses bedim our heads as the mist bedims the wanderers? Temptation and flattery dwell everywhere, and luxury oppresses all the pashas. Where, then, dwells virtue? Where grows the rose without prickles?

It becomes you alone, O Empress, to create light from darkness, dividing chaos harmoniously in spheres, to firmly unite them by a common bond; you alone can bring forth concord out of discord, and happiness out of violent passions: thus the sailor, crossing the sea, catches the gale in his sails and safely guides his ship.

You alone hurt not, nor injure anyone; though you may connive at stupidity, you tolerate no mean act; you treat peccadillos with condescension. You do not choke people, as the wolf chokes the sheep, but you know their worth: they are subject to the will of kings, but more to righteous God who lives in their laws.

You judge soundly of merits, and mete out honour to the deserving: you deem him not a prophet who merely makes rhymes. And as for that entertainment of the mind,--the honour and glory of good caliphs, the lyric strain to which you condescend,--poetry is pleasing to you, acceptable, soothing, useful,--like a refreshing lemonade in summer.

Rumour tells of you that you are not in the least haughty, that you are pleasant in business and in jest, agreeable in friendship and firm; that you are indifferent to misfortune, and so magnanimous in glory that you refused to be called “Wise.”[163] Again, they justly say that one may always tell you the truth.

This, too, is an unheard-of thing and worthy of you alone: you permit the people boldly to know and think all,[164] openly or in secret; nor do you forbid them to say of you what is true or false; and you are always prone to forgive those crocodiles, the Zoiluses of all your benefactions.

Rivers of joyful tears stream from the depth of my heart. Oh, how happy the people must be there with their fate, where a meek, peaceful angel, clad in porphyry splendour, wields the heaven-sent sceptre! There one may whisper conversations and, without fearing punishment, at dinners not drink the health of kings.

There one may erase Felítsa’s name in the line, or carelessly drop her portrait on the ground. There they do not celebrate preposterous weddings, and steam people in ice baths, and pull the mustaches of dignitaries; princes do not cackle like sitting hens, nor favourites laugh loud at them and smear their faces with soot.

You know, O Felítsa, the rights of men and kings. While you enlighten the manners, you do not turn men into fools. In your moments of rest you write fables for instruction and teach the alphabet to Khlor: “Do no wrong, and you will cause the bitterest satirist to become a hated prevaricator.”

You are ashamed to be called great, lest you be feared and hated: it becomes only a wild she-bear to tear animals and suck their blood. Need one have recourse to the lancet, unless in extreme fever, when one can get along without it? And is it glorious to be a tyrant, a great Tamerlane in cruelty, where one is great in goodness, like God?

Felítsa’s glory is the glory of a god who has calmed strife, who has covered, dressed and fed the orphaned and the poor; whose radiant eye emits its light to fools, cowards, ungrateful people and the just, and enlightens alike all mortals, soothes, cures the sick,--does good for good’s sake;

Who has given the liberty to travel to other lands, has permitted his people to seek gold and silver; who makes the waters free, and does not prohibit cutting down the woods; who orders to weave, and spin, and sew; who, freeing the mind and the hands, orders to love commerce and the sciences, and to find happiness at home;

Whose law and hand distribute favours and justice. Announce, wise Felítsa, where is the villain separated from the honest man? Where does old age not go a-begging, and merit find its bread? Where does revenge not drive anyone? Where dwells conscience with truth? Where shine virtues?--if not at your throne?

But where does your throne shine in the world? Where do you flourish, celestial branch? In Bagdad, Smyrna, Cashmir? Listen: wherever you may live and my praises reach you, think not that I wish a hat or caftan for them. To feel the charm of goodness is for the soul a wealth such as even Crœsus did not possess.

I pray the great prophet that I may touch the dust of your feet, that I may enjoy the sweet stream of your words and your look. I entreat the heavenly powers that they extend their sapphire wings and invisibly guard you from all diseases, evils and ennui, that the renown of your deeds may shine in posterity like stars in the heavens.

FROM “THE WATERFALL”

Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright, Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light: They sink, they rise, and sparkling cover all With infinite refulgence; while its song, Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along,--

Rolls through the woods,--they send its accents back, Whose last vibration in the desert dies: Its radiance glances o’er the watery track, Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies Beneath the forest shade; then sweetly flows A milky stream, all silent, as it goes.

Its foam is scattered on the margent bound, Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound, Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come On the fast-travelling breeze! Oh no, no voice Is heard around but thy majestic noise!

When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder, In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb; When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder, As sands they sink into thy mighty womb: The ice that would imprison thy proud tide Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide.

The fierce wolf prowls around thee--there it stands Listening,--not fearful, for he nothing fears: His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands, Like bristles o’er him his coarse fur he rears; Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats, And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats.

The wild stag hears thy falling waters’ sound, And tremblingly flies forward,--o’er her back She bends her stately horns, the noiseless ground Her hurried feet impress not, and her track Is lost among the tumult of the breeze, And the leaves falling from the rustling trees.

The wild horse thee approaches in his turn: He changes not his proudly rapid stride; His mane stands up erect, his nostrils burn, He snorts, he pricks his ears, and starts aside; Then rushing madly forward to thy steep, He dashes down into thy torrents deep.

--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_,