Part I

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STANZAS

He whose soul from sorrow dreary, Weak and wretched, naught can save, Who in sadness, sick and weary, Hopes no refuge but the grave; On his visage Pleasure beaming Ne’er shall shed her placid ray, Till kind fate, from woe redeeming, Leads him to his latest day.

Thou this life preservest ever, My distress and my delight! And, though soul and body sever, Still I’ll live a spirit bright; In my breast the heart that’s kindled Death’s dread strength can ne’er destroy, Sure the soul with thine that’s mingled Must immortal life enjoy.

That inspired by breath from heaven Need not shrink a mortal doom, To thee shall my vows be given In this world and that to come. My fond shade shall constant trace thee, And attend in friendly guise, Still surround thee, still embrace thee, Catch thy thoughts, thy looks, thy sighs.

To divine its secret pondering, Close to clasp thy soul ’t will brave, And if chance shall find thee wandering Heedless near my silent grave, E’en my ashes then shall tremble, Thy approach relume their fire, And that stone in dust shall crumble, Covering what can ne’er expire!

--From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_.

FOOTNOTES:

[165] The last verses Derzhávin wrote.

Mikhaíl Nikítich Muravév. (1757-1807.)

Muravév was an alumnus of the Moscow University, and early distinguished himself for his intimate knowledge of the ancient and many modern languages. In 1785 he became the instructor of Alexander and Constantine, and when the first ascended the throne, Muravév was made Senator, and later Curator of the Moscow University. He not only did much for the cause of education in Russia, but himself educated a new generation of writers, among them Bátyushkov; through his efforts Karamzín was made historiographer, and the Archives were opened to him. In his prose and poetry, Muravév was himself a follower of the pseudo-classic school, with an addition of sentimentalism, through Karamzín’s influence. In his classicism, however, he differs from all his contemporaries in that he drew directly from the ancient sources, with which he was intimately acquainted.

Sir John Bowring translated Muravév’s _To the Goddess of the Neva_, _Boleslav_, and “She bent her head, and her tears that fell.”

TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVÁ

Glide, majestic Neva! Glide thee, Decked with bright and peaceful smiles; Palaces are raised beside thee, ’Midst the shadows of the isles.

Stormy Russian seas thou bindest With the ocean--by the grave Of our glorious Tsar thou windest, Which thy graceful waters lave.

And the middle-ocean’s surges All thy smiling naiads court; While thy stream to Paros urges, And to Lemnos’ classic port.

Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded, See the brightest memories fade; Glassy mirrors--how degraded! Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade.

While thy happier face is bearing Ever-smiling images, On thy busy banks appearing Crowds in gaiety and peace.

Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes, Spread their riches o’er thy breast, While thy well-known banner rises, Rises proudly o’er the rest.

In thy baths what beauties bathe them, Goddesses of love and light; There Erota loves to swathe them In the brightest robes of night.

Cool thy smiling banks at even, Cool thy grottoes and thy cells, Where, by gentle breezes driven, Oft the dancing billow swells.

Then thou gatherest vapours round thee, Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress; Love and mirth have now unbound thee-- Yield thee to thy waywardness.

Thou dost bear the dying over, Weary of this earthly dream; And with awful mists dost cover All the bosom of the stream.

With thy car thou troublest never The calm silence of the deep; Sirens dance around thee ever, Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep.

Peaceful goddess! Oft the singer Sees thee in his ecstasy, On the rock he loves to linger, Sleepless,--then he meets with thee.

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