Russian Lyrics Part 2

_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 G.o.d 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 leaf.a.ge; Upon the fields the mists lie white, In l.u.s.ty caravans the wild geese Now to the milder South take flight; Seasons of tedium draw near, Before the door November drear!

From s.h.i.+vering 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 h.o.a.r 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 amus.e.m.e.nts be?

Walk? And but more of empty highway And of deserted village see?