Works of Alexander Pushkin (3 page)

In vain, the light of day pours down,
Or morn from mid-sky shines full bright,
Or, splashing round the senseless tomb,
The river purls, or forest wails;
In vain, at early morn, in quest
Of berries red, the village maid
Shall to the stream her basket bring,
And, frightened, dip her naked foot
Into the cold spring-waters fresh;
No sound can wake, or call him forth
The silent walls of his sad grave.
 

I HAVE OUTLIVED MY EVERY WISH

I have outlived my every wish,
Each dear dream seen rudely broken,
And naught remains but woe and plaint,
Sole heritage of vacant heart.

Despoiled by storms of jealous fate;
The tree of life has faded fast;
I live in grief and loneliness,
And wait in hope, the end may come.

As when the last, forgotten leaf,
That quivers on the naked branch,
By nipping frost is sudden caught,
And shriek of winter’s storm is heard.
 

TO THE SEA

Farewell, thou free, all — conquering sea!
No more wilt thou before me roll
In endless flow thy dark-blue billows
And revel in thy beauty proud.

Like mournful voice of friend departing.
Like summons sad to bid adieu,
Thy murmur soft from region far
I hearken, but shall hear no more.
For thou hast been ray soul’s desired bound,
As oft along thy pebbly shore
With slow and measured step I wandered,
And gladly lost in thoughts mine own.

How I have loved thy mystic echoes;
Dull sounds, a voice from the abyss;
In evening hour, thy peaceful ripple
Thy wayward bursts of sudden rage!

In fragile boat the fisher sailing
Thou lovst to shield from wave’s caprice,
And safe it skims o’er surging breakers;
But with unconquered strength wilt rise,
And vessel proud to pieces dash.

Too long, a willing slave, I have served,
Removed from thee, a sordid world;
Too long forgot with song to greet thee,
And o’er thy crested waves to waft
My verse sonorous and sincere.

‘Thou didst wait, thou didst call, but a spell
My vainly struggling soul subdued;
Enchanted by a mighty passion,
I still remained from thee estranged.

But why complain? Whither now should I
My vain and aimless steps direct?
O’er thy realms of waste but one small spot
Can speak to me or stir my soul:
A tiny rock, the glorious grave
And haunt of dreams of power lost,
Remembrance bare of fallen greatness,
Where raging pined Napoleon.

‘T was there he died, slow torture s victim,
And now we mourn a loss as great:
For ever hushed the song of tempest,
That crowned him lord of soul of man.

He died bewept by freedom’s children,
Bequeathing them his deathless crown.
Weep, ocean, weep, shed tny stormy tears!
His sweetest songs he sang to thee.

For on his brow was stamped thine image,
He, as it were, was child of thee;
Like thee, sublime, fathomless, alone;
Like thee, unconquered. unsubdued!

The world is dull and empty — And now,
Whither, ocean, wouldst thou bring me?
Where’er man flies, his fate ne’er changes;
And should he sip the cup of joy,
Some tyrant’s hand will dash it down.

Once more, farewell! And I thy beauty
And charms sublime shall ne’er forget;
And long, long shall, trembling, hear at night
The echo of thy mighty roar.
To forest shade, or the silent plain,
I ne’er shall bring a thought, save thine;
See thy cliffs, thy gleam, thy yawning gulfs,
And hear the chatter of thy waves.
 

ELEGY

Beneath the deep-blue sky of her own native land,
She weary grew, and, drooping, pined away:
She died and passed, and over me I oft-times feel
Her youthful shadow fondly hovering;
And all the while a gaping chasm divides us both.
In vain I would my aching grief awake:
From tongue indifferent I heard the fatal news,
With ear indifferent I learned her death.
And yet, ‘tis true, I loved her once with ardent soul,
My heart of hearts enwrapt in her alone;
With all the tenderness of languor torturing,
With all the racking pains of fond despair!
Where now my love, my pains? Alas, my barren soul
For her, so light and easy of belief,
For memory of days that nothing can recall,
To song or tears is dead and voiceless now.

VAIN GIFT, GIFT OF CHANCE

Vain gift, vain gift of blindest chance,
Life, why wert thou granted me?
Or why, by fate’s supreme decree,
Wert thou foredoomed to sorrow?
Alas, what god’s unfriendly power
Called me forth from nothingness,
My troubled soul with passion filled,
Made my mind a prey to doubt?

An aimless future lies before,
Dry my heart and void my mind.
My soul is dwarfed and crushed beneath
Life’s dull riot monotone.
 

DROWNED

The children ran up to the cot,
And eager to the father cried:
“Daddie, daddie, come quick, our nets
A body dead to shore have dragged!”
“You lie, you lie, you little imps!”
The angry father roughly growled:
“To think that these my children are!
I’ll teach you talk about dead men.”

Stern as judge, he ‘gan to question;
“Alas, the truth I ne’er shall know,
There’s nothing to be done! Eh, wife,
Give here my cloak, for I must go.
Where is this corpse?” “There, father, there!”
In truth, upon the river bank,
Where they the fishing-nets had cast,
A dead man lay. upon the sand.
The corpse had lost its comely form,
All swollen now, of ghastly hue.
Some maddened wretch, who in despair
Had freed his erring soul from woe;
Some fisher caught in angry sea;
Some reeling royster homeward bound:
Or merchant rich, with well — filled purse,
Attacked by cunning thieves and robbed.

With this no peasant has concern!
He looks around, and sets to work;
With sleeves up-tucked, he quickly drags
To water’s edge the sodden corpse;
And with his oar it pushes off
Adown the open, flowing stream;
And with the tide the dead man floats
In search of grave with cross o’erhead.

And long the body, tossed by waves,
Rolled, floating, like a living thing;
The peasant watched it out of sight,
And then he thoughtful home returned:
“Now, brats, to none a word of this,
And wastel-loaf I’ll give to each;
But good heed take, and hold your tongues,
Or else a whipping you shall have!”

The night was rough, the storm-blast raged,
The river overflowed its banks;
Within the peasant’s smoky hut
The flickering lath-torch spluttered;
The children slept, the housewife dozed.
And on his shelf the husband lay;
When, hark! above the tempest’s howl
He heard some one at window knock.

“Who’s there?”.... Eh, open, my good friend
“Why, what ill luck is there abroad,
That thou, like Cain, dost prowl the night?
The devil take thee quick from hence!
For roaming vagrants where find place?
Our house is small and close enough.”
And, with unwilling, lazy hand,
He window opened and looked out.

From out a cloud the moon peered forth...,
Before him stood a naked form,
With water dripping from his beard;
His eyes were open, motionless;
A lifeless statue, numb and cold,
His bony hands drooped helpless down;
And o’er his swollen body crawled,
Fast clinging, black and slimy things.

The peasant quick the window closed;
He knew full well that naked guest,
And swooned away. “Ah, mayst thou burst!”
He, trembling, muttered trough his teeth.
Uncanny thoughts possessed his brain,
And all that night he sleepless tossed:
Till morn he heard the ceaseless kuock,
At window first, and then at door.

Among the people goes the tale,
How from that night of dread and crime,
Each year the half-crazed peasant waits
The destined day and guest unknown.
From early morn the clouds hang low,
The night grows rough and wild with storm;
And lo! the dead man ceaseless knocks
At window first, and then at door.
 

THE UNWASHED

A poet from enchanted lyre
Struck notes of mildest melody;
He sang.... but cold and all unmoved,
The mob unconsecrated stood,
And, gaping, listened to his song.

Amongst themselves the mob discussed:
“Why sing with voice so musical?
The ear is tickled, but in vain,
What is the goal he leads us to?
Why this thrumming? What would he teach?
Our hearts why stir, our souls torment,
Like one possessed with unknown tongue?
His song is free as lawless winds,
And, like the winds, can bear no fruit:
What good or profit can it bring?

POET.
Silence! mob of senseless grumblers,
Day-labourers, base slaves of slaves,
I loathe your shallow murmurs vile.
Ye worms of earth, no sons of heaven,
Your God is profit:.... by the pound
You weigh Apollo Belvedere:
The iron pot is dearer held,
Since it serves well to cook your food.

THE UNWASHED.
Nay, if thou be elect of God,
Thy gift, dear messenger divine,
Use kindly for our good and weal;
Correct and guide thy brethren’s hearts.
We are, thou sayst, small-souled in aim,
Wicked, shameless, and ungrateful;
Our hearts are cold and dead to love,
Calumniators, slaves, and fools;
Each vice finds nest within our souls.
But thou art lover of thy kind,
And lessons bold in truth canst give;
And we will listen to thy words.

POET.
Away! Begone! What common tie
Can poet bind to such as you?
Be boldly hard in vice as rock;
Nor song, nor lyre can give you life,
In soul as senseless as the tomb;
For centuries you have well reaped,
And of your follies won the prize,
The whip, the prison, and the axe.
Begone, dull slaves of ease and gain!
Men in your city’s noisy streets
The rubbish sweep.... a useful work!
But think ye that the prophet-priests,
Forgetful of their calling high,
Will quit the altar-sacrifice,
And meekly take in hands your brooms?
To take part in the world’s turmoil,
In sordid gain, in vulgar strife,
We are not born, but have received
The inspired gift of sweetest song.

A WINTER MORNING

The frost and sun; a glorious day!
And thou, my sweetling, still dost sleep:
‘Tis time, my fairest, to awake:
Ope quick thine eyes with slumber dulled,
And gladly hail the Northern Morn,
Shine forth, thyself the Northern Star!

Last night the snow-storm whirled and roared,
The sky was hidden in white mist;
The yellow moon peered feebly through
The thick and gloomy flanks of cloud;
And thou satst dull and ill at ease,
But, darling, now.... look out abroad!

Beneath the richly woven web
Of dark-blue sky of deepest dye
The snow lies glittering in the sun:
The forest dense alone is black,
The firs are green with hoary rime,
And, bound in ice, the river gleams.

And all the room with amber glow
Is lighted up. The blazing fire
Up chimney flames with crackling gay,
‘Tis good to muse in easy-chair:
But knowst thou what?’ Tis better far
To harness quick the chestnut mare.

And o’er the morning s snow our steed,
Full eager, with impatience hot,
Shall, panting, bear us, dearest, quick;
Across the empty fields we’ll scud
Through thickest forests none could pass,
Along the shore so dear to me.

THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT

The noisy joys of thoughtless years are spent;
And all, like head confused with drink, is dulled.
But, as with wine, the woe of days gone by
With force more strong than newer woe torments.
A dreary path before me lies. Fresh toils
To drown me in a sea of trouble threat.

And yet, dear friends of youth. I would not die!
I wish to live, that I may muse and toil;
I feel that joy shall mingle with my woe,
Relieve my care, and heal my doubtings sad.
Once more, I’ll drink the cup of harmony,
And drown my thoughts in flood of soothing tears;
And, haply, in the setting hour of life
Love’s farewell smile ‘shall lighten up the dark.
 

A STUDY

And now, my chubby critic, fat burly cynic,
For ever mocking and deriding my sad muse,
Draw near, and take a seat, I pray, close beside me,
And let us come to terms with this accursèd spleen.
But why that frown? Is it so hard to leave our woes,
A moment to forget ourselves in joyous song?
And now, admire the view! That sorry row of huts;
Behind, a level long descent of blackish earth,
Above, one layer thick of gray, unbroken clouds.
But where the cornfields gay or where the shady woods?
And where the river? In the court there, by the fence,
Shoot up two lean and withered trees to glad the eye;
Just two, no more; and one of them, you will observe,
By autumn rains has long been bared of its last leaf;
The scanty leaves upon the other only wait
I’he first loud breeze, to fall and foul the pond below.
No other sign of life, no dog to watch the yard.
But stay, Ivan I see, and two old women near;
With head unbared, the coffin of his child he bears,
And from afar to drowsy sexton loudly shouts,

And bids him call the priest, and church-door to unlock:
“Look sharp!The brat we should have buried long ago!”

TO THE CALUMNIATORS OF RUSSIA

What mean these angry cries, haranguers of the mob?
And wherefore hurl your curses at poor Russia’s head?
And what has stirred your rage? Our Lietva’s discontent?
Your wrangling cease, and let the Slavs arrange their feud:
It is an old domestic strife, the legacy
Of ages past, a quarrel you can ne’er decide.
Already long among themselves
These tribes have fought and weaved intrigues;
And more than once, as fate has willed,
We, or they, have bent before the storm.
But who shall victor end the feud,
The haughty Pole, or Russian true?
Shall streams Slavonic with Russian sea commingle,
Or leave it dry? That is the question.
Leave us in peace! You have not read
These sacred oracles of blood;
This fierce, domestic quarrel-feud
Seems to you both strange and senseless!
Kremlin, Praga, mean naught to you!
You mock and scorn as childish whim
The combat fierce we wage for life;
And more.... ‘tis nothing new.... you hate us!
But why this hate? Na}r, answer, why?
Is it because, when burning Moscow’s ruins flamed,
We would not own his brutal rule,
Before whose nod you, humbled, crouched?
Because we rose and dashed to ground
The idol that so long had weighed the empires down,
And boldly with our blood redeemed
Lost Europe’s honour, freedom, peace?