Russian Lyrics - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
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 Emba.s.sy 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 pa.s.sed 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 p.a.w.n!
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 pa.s.sion'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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sion as past strife, All is but prose to such as he, Wearied unto satiety.
Perchance we fain would pa.s.s 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 n.o.blest 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 G.o.ds 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!
PUSHKIN.
_The Alexander column, standing before the Winter Palace at St.
Petersburg, is a monolith eighty feet high; with the pedestal measuring one hundred and fifty feet_.
TAMARA
Where waves of the Terek are waltzing In Dariel's wickedest pa.s.s, There rises from bleakest of storm crags An ancient grey towering ma.s.s.
In this tower by mad winds a.s.saulted, Sat ever Tamara, the Queen-- A heavenly angel of beauty, With a spirit of h.e.l.l's own demesne.
Through the mist of the night her gold fires Gleamed down through the valley below, A welcome they threw to the pilgrim, In their streaming and beckoning glow.
How clear rang the voice of Tamara!
How amorous did it invite!
The heart of the stranger enticing, Seducing with magic delight!
The warrior was snared by her singing, Nor n.o.ble, nor herd could withstand-- Then noiseless her portal was opened By eunuchs of shadowy hand.
With pearls rare adorned and strange jewels, Reposed on a billowy nest, A prey to voluptuous longing, Tamara awaited her guest.
With pa.s.sioned and thrilling embracement, With straining of breast unto breast, With sighing and trembling and transport-- In l.u.s.t's unrestrained, giddy zest--
So revelled 'mid desolate ruins, Of Lovers,--past counting at least!
In their bridal night's wild distraction, And in truth at their own death feast.
For when from the peaks of the mountains The sun tore the night's veiling soft, There reigned anew only the silence On turret and cas.e.m.e.nt aloft.
And only the Terek bewailing With fury broke in on the hush, As das.h.i.+ng her billows on billows Her writhing floods onward did rush.
A youth's form her currents are bearing, Ah vainly they murmur and swell!
A woman, a pale and a fair one-- Cries down from her tower "Farewell!"
Her voice has the sound of faint weeping, So amorous, tender and sweet-- As if she in love's holy rapture Did promise of meeting repeat!
LERMONTOFF.
