Russian Lyrics | Page 3

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