Russian Lyrics by Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi
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Translated by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi >> Russian Lyrics
_Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_
THE KISS OF APOLLO
GABRIELLE AND OTHER POEMS.
THE SIN OF ANGELS: A Novel
A COSSACK LOVER: A Novel
THE CUCKOO'S NEST: A Novel
A MODERN PROMETHEUS: A Novel of Italy. With a frontispiece
RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS.
RUSSIAN LYRICS
SONGS OF COSSACK, LOVER,
PATRIOT AND PEASANT
_DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE_
BY
MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI
_Author of "Within the Hedge," "The Cathedral," "A Modern Prometheus,"
"The Cuckoo's Nest" etc_.
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
_To
"A soul of passion, mirth and tears_."
CONTENTS
The Song of the Kazak................................ Pushkin
Cradle Song of a Cossack Mother................... Lermontoff
The Dagger........................................ Lermontoff
Don't Give Me the Wine!..........(From the Georgian of Prince
Tschawtschawadze)
The Delibash......................................... Pushkin
To the Don........................................... Pushkin
The Caucas........................................... Pushkin
The Cloister on Kasbek............................... Pushkin
Goblins of the Steppes............................... Pushkin
Under a Portrait of Jukowsky......................... Pushkin
The Vision........................................... Pushkin
I Loved Thee......................................... Pushkin
Serenade............................................. Pushkin
A Winter Evening..................................... Pushkin
The Last Flower...................................... Pushkin
Stanzas from "Onegin"
Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer................ Pushkin
Sometimes He read Aloud with Olga.................. Pushkin
Love Condescends to Every Altar.................... Pushkin
How Sad to Me is Thine Appearing................... Pushkin
The Memorial......................................... Pushkin
Tamara............................................ Lermontoff
The Gift of the Terek............................. Lermontoff
On Departure for the Caucas....................... Lermontoff
To the Clouds..................................... Lermontoff
To My Country..................................... Lermontoff
To Kasbek......................................... Lermontoff
The Angel......................................... Lermontoff
A Prayer.......................................... Lermontoff
The Sail.......................................... Lermontoff
I Am Not Byron.................................... Lermontoff
Like An Evil Spirit............................... Lermontoff
To A.C.S.......................................... Lermontoff
A Song............................................ Lermontoff
From Demon........................................ Lermontoff
The Prayer........................................ Lermontoff
The Palm Branch of Palestine...................... Lermontoff
The Dispute....................................... Lermontoff
Heaven and the Stars.............................. Lermontoff
On Napoleon's Death............................... Lermontoff
On the Death of Pushkin........................... Lermontoff
Russia, O My Russia, Hail!........................... Tolstoy
The Wolves........................................... Tolstoy
Autumn............................................... Tolstoy
Burnt Out Is Now My Misery........................... Tolstoy
In Hours of Ebbing Tide.............................. Tolstoy
Swans................................................. Maikow
To Sleep.............................................. Maikow
In Memory of My Daughter.............................. Maikow
Mother and Child...................................... Maikow
An Easter Greeting.................................... Maikow
At Easter............................................. Maikow
O Mountains of My Native Country!..................... Maikow
The Aeolian Harp...................................... Maikow
Ye Songs of Mine!.................................. Nekrassow
In War............................................. Nekrassow
A Song of Siberian Exiles.......................... Nekrassow
Freedom............................................ Nekrassow
A Farewell......................................... Nekrassow
The Love Letter.................................... Nekrassow
What the Sleepless Grandam Thinks.................. Nekrassow
To Russia............................................ Nikitin
The Song of the Spendthrift.......................... Nikitin
The Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould....... Nikitin
Gossip............................................... Nikitin
In a Peasant Hut..................................... Nikitin
Winter Night in the Village.......................... Nikitin
The Birch Tree....................................... Nikitin
North and South...................................... Nikitin
Hunger............................................... Fofanow
Faded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden......... Fofanow
The Beggar........................................... Fofanow
With Roses...................... (From the Georgian of Prince
Tschawtschawadze)
The Stars........... (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine)
Whispers and the Timid Breathing.......... ("Fete Chenchine")
The Tales of the Stars.............................. Fofanow
One Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love................. (Gipsy Song)
A Gipsy Song........................................ Polonsky
At Last.......................................... Plestcheeff
By An Open Window................. The Grand Duke Constantine
With the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!.... Nadson
The Poet.............................................. Nadson
To the Muse........................................... Nadson
A Fragment............................................ Nadson
In May................................................ Nadson
In Memory of N.M.D.................................... Nadson
At the Grave of N.M.D................................. Nadson
In Dreams............................................. Nadson
The Old Grey House.................................... Nadson
Call Him Not Dead,--He Lives!......................... Nadson
Brief Biographical Notes:
Alexander Sergjewitsch Pushkin
Michail Jurjewitsch Lermontoff
Count Alexis Constantinowitsch Tolstoy
Apollon Nikolajewitsch Maikow
Nikolai Alexajewitsch Nekrassow
Ivan Ssawitsch Nikitin
Constantine Michailowitsch Fofanow
Semijon Jakolowitsch Nadson
To the Reader.
The translations in this little collection make no pretension to being
more than an effort to share the delight found in them; from which most
of the world is debarred by the difficulty of the language in which they
are written. They have been chosen at random, each for some intrinsic
charm or because of its bearing upon some peculiar phase of the author.
Very few of the lyrics of Pushkin have been included, for the reason
that the great founder of Russian poetry has been more widely translated
than any other Russian poet, and is therefore available in several
languages.
Remembering always that Heine declared translation was betrayal,--the
rhyme and smoothness have in every case been sacrificed when necessary
to preserve the exact rhythm, and as far as possible the vigour and
colour, as well as thought of the original; a task entirely beyond me
save for the co-operation of an accomplished Russian linguist who has
kindly assisted in the literal translation of every poem here presented.
M.G.D.B.
RUSSIAN LYRICS AND
COSSACK SONGS
THE SONG OF THE KAZAK
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
Kazak has never heart for rest,
Not on the field, nor in the wood,
Nor when in face of danger pressed
His steed the raging stream must breast!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
With him a mighty power brings,
To win the honour of his land
Kazak his life unheeding flings--
Till fame of him eternal sings!
Kazak brought all Siberia
At foot of Russia's throne to lie,
Kazak left glory in the Alps,
His name the Turk can terrify,
His flag he ever carries high!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
Kazak has never heart for rest,
Not on the field, nor in the wood,
Nor when in face of danger pressed
His steed the raging stream must breast!
PUSHKIN.
_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half--Kazak_.
CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER
Slumber sweet, my fairest baby,
Slumber calmly, sleep--
Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber,
In thy cradle creep;
I will tell to thee a story,
Pure as dewdrop glow,
Close those two beloved eyelids--
Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o'er its pebbles
Blusters through the vale,
On its shores the little Khirgez
Whets his murdrous blade;
Yet thy father grey in battle--
Guards thee, child of woe,
Safely rest thee in thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee,
Danger, slaughterous fire--
Thou shalt on a charger gallop,
Curbing at desire;
And a saddle girth all silken
Sadly I will sew,
Slumber now my wide-eyed darling,
Lullaby, By-low!
When I see thee, my own Being,
As a Cossack true,
Must I only convoy give thee--
"Mother dear, adieu!"
Nightly in the empty chamber
Blinding tears will flow,
Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one,
Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I'll wait lamenting
As the days go by,
Ardent for thee praying,--fearing
In the cards to spy.
I shall fancy thou wilt suffer,
As a stranger grow--
Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest,
Lullaby, By-low!
I will send a holy image
'Gainst the foe with thee,
To it kneeling, dearest Being,
Pray with piety!
Think of me in bloody battle,
Dearest child of woe,
Slumber soft within thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
LERMONTOFF.
THE DAGGER
I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence--
I love the beauty of thy glitter cold,
A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war,
Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold.
A lily hand, in parting's silent woe,
Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade;
Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewed
With sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade.
Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul,
Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain--
Like thine own steel within the fire's glow,
Flashed forth to me--then faded dull again.
For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed,
In my life's night to guide me to my end;
Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever,
Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend!
LERMONTOFF.
DON'T GIVE ME THE WINE!
Don't give me the wine!
I am drunk of my love,
With the force of my passion for you!
Don't give me the wine!
Or my tongue will betray
All the love no one dreamed hitherto;
For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast,
All the bitter hot tears that were mine,
My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest--
I am drunk of my love,--don't give me the wine!
You promise me roses now, if I will drink
But one drop of the wine;--if you please
Give only one breath from the rose of your lips!
And death's cup I will drain to the lees.
All passions are raging at once in my blood,
Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine.
You seem for my suffering only to wish--
I am drunk of my love!
Don't give me the wine!
_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_.
THE DELIBASH
With the hostile camp in skirmish
Our men once were changing shot,
Pranced the Delibash his charger
'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot.
Trifle not with free-born Cossacks!
Nor too o'er foolhardy be!
Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for--
On his pike he'll skewer thee!
'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound,
Off thy head, at lightning speed
With his scimitar he'll sever
From thy trunk! He will indeed!
What confusion! What a roaring!
Halt! thou devil's pack, have care!
On the pike is lanced the horseman--
Headless stands the Cossack there!
PUSHKIN.
_Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur_.
TO THE DON
Through the Steppes, see there he glances!
Silent flood glad hailed by me,--
Thy far distant sons do proffer
Through me, greeting fond to thee!
Every stream knows thee as brother,
Don, thou river boasted wide!
The Araxes and Euphrates
Send thee greeting as they glide.
Fresh and strengthened for pursuing,
Scenting home within thy gleam--
Drink again the Don'ish horses,
Flowing boundary, of thy stream!
Faithful Don! There also greet thee
Thy true warriors bold and free--
Let thy vineyard's foaming bubbles
In the glass be spilled to thee!
PUSHKIN.
_The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack_.
THE CAUCAS
The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand where
Glaciers gleam, beside a precipice rock-ribbed;
An eagle that has soared from off some distant cliff,
Lawless as I, sweeps through the radiant air!
Here I see streams at their sources up-welling,
The grim avalanches unrolling and swelling!
The soft cloudy convoys are stretched forth below,
Tattered by thronging mad torrents descending;
Beneath them the naked rocks downward are bending,
Still deeper, the wild shrubs and sparse herbage grow;
But yonder the forests stand verdant in flora
And birds are a'twitter in choiring chorus.
Yonder, cliff-nested-are dwellings of mortals,
There pasture the lambs in sweet blossoming meadows--
There couch the herds in the cool deepening shadows--
There roar the Aragua's blue sparkling waters,
And lurketh the bandit safe hid in lone caverns,
Where Terek, wild sporting, is cutting the azure!
It leaps and it howls like some ravening beast
At first sight of feeding, through grating of iron--
It roars on the shore with a furious purring,
It licks on the pebbles with eagerest greed.
Vain struggle and rancor and hatred, alas!
'Tis enchained and subdued by the unheeding mass.
PUSHKIN.
THE CLOISTER ON KASBEK
KASBEK, thy regal canopy
High o'er all peaks revealed I see
By an eternal icy glare.
Hanging in cloudless glory ever--
Like to an ark thy cloister there;
This world disturbing thy peace never,
Blest realm of joy remote in air!
Ah could I at thy mercy's threshold,
From durance cursed set myself free,
And in thine own etherial cloisters
Near thy Creator ever be!
PUSHKIN.
GOBLINS OP THE STEPPES
Stormy clouds delirious straying,
Showers of whirling snowflakes white,
And the pallid moonbeams waning--
Sad the heavens, sad the night!
Further speeds the sledge, and further,
Loud the sleighbell's melody,
Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming,
'Mid these snow fields now to be!
Hasten! "That is useless, Master,
Heavier for my team their load,
And my eyes with snow o'er plastered
Can no longer see the road!
Lost all trace of our direction,
Sir, what now? The goblins draw
Us already round in circles,
Pull the sledge with evil claw!
See! One hops with frantic gesture,
In my face to grin and hiss,
See! It goads the frenzied horses
Onward to the black abyss!
In the darkness, like a paling
One stands forth,--and now I see
Him like walking-fire sparkling--
Then the blackness,--woe is me!"
Stormy clouds delirious straying,
Showers of snowflakes whirling white,
And the pallid moonbeams waning--
Sad the heavens, sad the night!
Sudden halt the weary horses,
Silent too the sleighbells whirr--
Look! What crouches on the ground there?
"Wolf,--or shrub,--I know not, Sir."
How the wind's brood rage and whimper!
Scenting, blow the triple team;
See! One hops here! Forward Driver!
How his eyes with evil gleam!
Scarce controllable the horses,
How the harness bells resound!
Look! With what a sneering grimace
Now the spirit band surround!
In an endless long procession,
Formless, countless of their kind
Circle us in flying coveys
Like the leaves in Autumn wind.
Now in ghastly silence deathly,
Now with shrilling elfin cry--
Is it some mad dance of bridal,
Or a death march passing by?
Stormy clouds delirious straying
Showers of snowflakes whirling white,
And the pallid moonbeams waning--
Sad the heavens, sad the night!
Cloudward course the evil spirits
In unceasing phantom bands,
And their moaning and bewailing
Grip my heart with icy hands!
PUSHKIN.
UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY
The charm and sweetness of his magic verse
Will mock the envious years for centuries!
Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns,
The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees,
And careless joy to wistful musing turns.
PUSHKIN.
_Jukowsky was a Russian poet_.
THE VISION
I remember a marvellous instant,
Unto me bending down from above,
Thy radiant vision appearing
As an angel of beauty and love.
'Mid the torments of desperate sadness,
In the torture of bondage and sighs,
To me rang thy voice so beloved--
And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes.
But the years rolled along--and life's tempests
My illusions, my youth overcame,
I forgot that sweet voice full of music--
And thy glance like a heavenly flame.
In the covert and grief of my exile,
The days stretched unchanged in their flight,
Bereft inspiration or power,
Bereft both of love and of light.
To my soul now approaches awakening,
To me thou art come from above,
As a radiant and wonderful vision--
As an angel of beauty and love.
As before my heart throbs with emotion,
Life looks to me worthy and bright,
And I feel inspiration and power--
And again love and tears and the light!
PUSHKIN.
I LOVED THEE
I loved thee; and perchance until this moment
Within my breast is smouldering still the fire!
Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,
Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!
I loved thee with a silent desperation--
Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,
I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion--
Ah may God grant another love thee so!
PUSHKIN.
A SERENADE
I watch Inesilla
Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
In night's dusky sheath.
Enamoured I linger,
Close mantled, for thee--
With sword and with guitar,
O look once on me!
Art sleeping? Wilt wake thee
Guitar tones so light?
The argus-eyed greybeard
My swift sword shall smite.
The ladder of ropes
Throw me fearlessly now!
Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet,
Been false to thy vow?
I watch Inesilla
Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
In night's dusky sheath!
PUSHKIN.
A WINTER EVENING
Sable clouds by tempest driven,
Snowflakes whirling in the gales,
Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling,
Hark--now like a child it wails!
Creeping through the rustling straw thatch,
Rattling on the mortared walls,
Like some weary wanderer knocking--
On the lowly pane it falls.
Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen,
Drear and lonely our retreat,
Speak a word and break the silence,
Dearest little Mother, sweet!
Has the moaning of the tempest
Closed thine eyelids wearily?
Has the spinning wheel's soft whirring
Hummed a cradle song to thee?
Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,
Thou true-souled companion dear--
Let us drink! Away with sadness!
Wine will fill our hearts with cheer.
Sing the song how free and careless
Birds live in a distant land--
Sing the song of maids at morning
Meeting by the brook's clear strand!
Sable clouds by tempest driven,
Snowflakes whirling in the gales,
Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling,
Hark--now like a child it wails!
Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,
Thou true-souled companion dear,
Let us drink! Away with sadness!
Wine will fill our hearts with cheer!
PUSHKIN.
THE LAST FLOWER
Rich the first flower's graces be,
But dearer far the last to me;
My spirit feels renewal sweet,
Of all my dreams hope or desire--
The hours of parting oft inspire
More than the moments when we meet!
PUSHKIN.
THE COMING OF THE WINTER
_Stanzas from "Onegin"_
Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer,
Than Southern Winter scarce more bland--
Is undeniably withdrawing
On fleeting footsteps from the land.
Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens,
The light of sunbeams rarer grown--
Already every day is shorter,
While with a smitten hollow tone
The forest drops its shadow leafage;
Upon the fields the mists lie white,
In lusty caravans the wild geese
Now to the milder South take flight;
Seasons of tedium draw near,
Before the door November drear!
From shivering mist ascends the morning,
The bustle, of the fields declines,
The wolf walks now upon the highway,
In wolfish hunger howls and whines;
The traveller's pony scents him, snorting--
The heedful wanderer breathless takes
His way in haste beyond the mountains!
And though no longer when day breaks
Forth from their stalls the herd begins
To drive the kine,--his noon-day horn recalls.
The peasant maiden sings and spins,
Before her crackling, flaming bright
The pine chips,--friend of Winter night.
And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles
And spreads its silver o'er the fields,
Alas! the golden days are vanished!
Reluctant Nature mournful yields.
The stream with ice all frozen over
Gleams as some fashionable parquet,
And thronging hordes of boyish skaters
Sweep forward on its crystal way.
On her red claws despondent swimming,
The plump goose parts the water cold,
Then on the ice with caution stalking
She slips and tumbles,--ah behold!
Now the first snowflake idling down
Stars the depressing landscape brown.
At such a season in the country,
What can a man's amusements be?
Walk? And but more of empty highway
And of deserted village see?
Or let him through the far Steppes gallop,
His horse can scarcely stand at all--
His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold,
The rider dreading lest he fall!
So then remain within thy paling,
Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott,
Compare thy varying editions,
Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not!
As the long evenings drag away
So doth the Winter too delay.
PUSHKIN.
_[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of
Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw
were demanded_.]
FROM "ONEGIN"
Sometimes he read aloud with Olga
A latter day romance discreet,
Whose author truly painted nature,
With cunning plot, insight complete;
Oft he passed over a few pages,
Too bald or tasteless in their art--
And coloring, began on further,
Not to disturb the maiden heart.
Again, they sat for hours together,
With but a chess board to divide;
She with her arms propped on the table,
Deep pondering, puzzled to decide--
Till Lenski from his inward storm
Captured her castle with his pawn!
PUSHKIN.
FROM "ONEGIN"
Love condescends to every altar,
Ah when in hearts of youth it springs,
Its coming brings such glad refreshment
As May rain o'er the pasture flings!
Lifted from passion's melancholy
The life breaks forth in fairer flower,
The soul receives a new enrichment--
Fruition sweet and full of power.
But when on later altars arid
It downward sweeps, about us flows--
Love leaves behind such deathly traces
As Autumn tempests where it blows
To strip the woods with ruthless hand,
And turn to soggy waste the land!
PUSHKIN.
FROM "ONEGIN"
How sad to me is thine appearing,
O Springtime, hour of love's unrest!
Within the soul what nameless languors!
What passions hid within the breast!
With what a heavy, heavy spirit
From the earth's rustic lap I feel
Again the joy of Springtide odors--
That once could make my spirit reel!
No more for me such pleasures thrilling,
All that rejoices, that has life,
All that exults,--brings but despondence
To one past passion as past strife,
All is but prose to such as he,
Wearied unto satiety.
Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed
That which in Autumn drooped and pined,
Now radiant in verdure springing,
Since it must of our loss remind;
As with a tortured soul we realize
In Nature's glad awakening,
That we shall never find renewal,
Who evermore are withering.
Perchance there haunts us in remembrance,
Our own most dear and lyric dream,
Another long forgotten Springtime--
And trembling neath this pang supreme,
The heart faints for a distant country
And for a night beside the sea!
PUSHKIN.
THE MEMORIAL
Beyond compare the monument I have erected,
And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,--
Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar
The Emperor Alexander hath!
I shall not vanish wholly,--No! but young forever
My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring,
And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance
While yet one Singer lives to sing.
My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia,
Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide,
The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me--
The Tungoose in his reindeer hide.
Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished,
Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed,
In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom,
And never for their pleasures blamed.
O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever!
Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain--
Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation,
And argument with Fools disdain!