Russian Lyrics | Page 9

could o'erthrow, who thee did elevate-- Forever thus remains thy greatness great!
LERMONTOFF.

ON THE DEATH OF PUSHKIN
He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour, A sacrifice to slander's lust; The haughty Poet's head, the noblest, Bowed on his wounded breast in dust. No longer could his free soul suffer The vulgar world's low infamy; He rose against the world's opinion, And as a hero, lone fell he. He fell! To what avail the sobbing-- The useless choir of tears and praise? Wretched the stammering excuses! The Fates have spoke,--no power allays! Have ye not at all times together His sacred genius baited sore, The silent fury fanned to flaming, Delighted in your work before? O be triumphant! Earthly torment The Poet soul did fully bear, Extinguished are the lights inspired, The laurel crown lies leafless there! The murderer contemptuous gazing Did stedfastly his weapon aim, No swifter beat his heart, Assassin! Nor shook his lifted hand for shame. No wonder; from a distance came he As an adventurer unknown, For worthy title, star of order-- Stood but his mad desire alone. Sneering and self-complacent mocked he The rights and customs of our land, He could not understand our glory, Against which he has raised his hand.
"Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung, The Singer even as the song he sung; Who of a hot, heroic mood, In death disgraceful shed his blood!"[1]
Why did he leave his home life tranquil, To seek the envious market place, Where each free flame is suffocated, Expose him to the assassin base? The human breed, who had known better Since earliest years of youth, than he-- Why did he trust the false pretending Of malice and hypocrisy? Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him, Gave him a martyr's crown instead, And now the cruel thorns have pierced him E'en to the blood of his proud head! His last days were for him envenomed-- Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved, He died revenge a'thirst, accusing That every hope his heart deceived!
Mute evermore the magic echoes, That ne'er shall wonders more reveal, The Poet's home is dark and narrow-- Upon the Singer's lips a seal.
But ye, sons insolent and shameless-- Defamers, faithless fathers, ye! Who trod the pure soul of another Beneath your feet, who zealously Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling For fame and freedom, hatred steeled! Well may you sneer at truth and justice, The law provides you screen and shield, Only a higher law shall sentence! A mighty Judge beyond assail Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers, The Highest Judge who does not fail! So then calumniate with brazen courage, Your hatred's fury nought restrains-- Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for One drop within the Poet's pure veins.
LERMONTOFF. [1] _These four lines are from Pushkin's own romantic poem, "Onegin."_

RUSSIA, O MY RUSSIA, HAIL!
Russia, O my Russia, hail! Steeds as tempests flying, Howling of the distant wolves, Eagles high, shrill crying! Hail, my Russia, hail! Hail high! Hail thy green forests proud, Hail thy silvery nightingales, Hail Steppes and wind and cloud!
TOLSTOY.

THE WOLVES
When the church-village slumbers And the last songs are sung, When the grey mist arising, Is o'er the marshes hung, 'Tis then the woods forsaking, Their way cross country taking, Nine howling wolves come hungering for food.
Behind the first,--the grey one,-- Trot seven more of black, Close on their hoary leader; As rearguard of the pack The red wolf limps, all bloody, His paws with gore still ruddy As after his companions grim he pants.
When through the village lurking Nought gives them check or fright, No watch dog dares to bellow, The peasant ghastly white, His breath can scarce be taking, His limbs withhold from shaking-- While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips!
About the church they circle And softly slink away To prowl about the priest's farm, Then of a sudden they Are round the drink shop turning, Fain some bad word be learning-- From peasants drinking noisily within.
With fully thirteen bullets Thy weapon must be armed, And with a wad of goat's hair; Then thou wilt fight unharmed. Fire calmly,--and before all Will the leader, the grey, fall, The rest will surely follow one by one.
When the cock wakes the village From out its morning dream, Thou wilt behold the corpses-- Nine she-wolves by the stream! On the right lies the grey one, To left in frost the lame one-- All bloody,--God pardon us sinners!
TOLSTOY.

AUTUMN
Autumn 'tis! Our garden stands Flowerless and bare, Dizzy whirling yellow leaves Fill the wind swept air. Yet the distant mountain ash In the vale below, With our favorite berries red Now begins to glow. While with rapture and with pain Throbbing in my breast, Pressing hot thy hands in mine, Silent, unexpressed-- Fondly gazing in thine eyes, Through my tears I see-- That I