The Bakchesarian Fountain and Other Poems | Page 6

flight.
On all sides alike pikes gleam around us,?Through air hiss arrows, cannons bright flash,?Bullets, like bees, in swarms fly terrific,
Mingling swords clash.
Not half a million of fierce invaders?Can meet the rage of Russia's attacks;?Not more than they the timid deer shrinks at
Sight of Cossacks.
O'er blood-drenched plains their red standards scattered,?Their arms abandoned, spoils left behind:?Death they now flee from, to loss of honour
Basely resigned.
Vainly they shun it, fruitless their cunning,?Jove's bird strikes down the blood-thirsty crow,?The fame and bones of Frenchmen in Russia
Alike lie low.
Thus th' ambitious usurper is vanquished,?Thus his legions destroyed as they flee,?Thus white-stoned Moscow, the first throned city,
Once more set free.
To God, all potent, let thanks be rendered,?Honoured our TSAR'S and each chieftain's name,?To th'Empire safety, to Don's brave offspring
Laurels and fame!
[1] Lasso.
[2] Kutuzoff.
[3] The Virgin.
SOLITUDE.
BY MERZLIAKOFF.
Upon a hill, which rears itself midst plains extending wide, Fair flourishes a lofty OAK in beauty's blooming pride;?This lofty oak in solitude its branches wide expands,?All lonesome on the cheerless height like sentinel it stands. Whom can it lend its friendly shade, should Sol with fervour glow? And who can shelter it from harm, should tempests rudely blow? No bushes green, entwining close, here deck the neighbouring ground, No tufted pines beside it grow, no osiers thrive around.?Sad even to trees their cheerless fate in solitude if grown, And bitter, bitter is the lot for youth to live alone!?Though gold and silver much is his, how vain the selfish pride! Though crowned with glory's laurelled wreath, with whom that crown divide? When I with an acquaintance meet he scarce a bow affords,?And beauties, half saluting me, but grant some transient words. On some I look myself with dread, whilst others from me fly, But sadder still the uncherished soul when Fate's dark hour draws nigh; Oh! where my aching heart relieve when griefs assail me sore? My friend, who sleeps in the cold earth, comes to my aid no more! No relatives, alas! of mine in this strange clime appear,?No wife imparts love's fond caress, sweet smile, or pitying tear; No father feels joy's thrilling throb, as he our transport sees; No gay and sportive little ones come clambering on my knees;-- Take back all honours, wealth, and fame, the heart they cannot move, And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of love!
TO MY ROSE.
Bright queen of flowers, O! Rose, gay blooming,?How lovely are thy charms to me!?Narcissus proud, pink unassuming,?In beauty vainly vie with thee;?When thou midst Flora's circle shinest,?Each seems thy slave confessed to sigh,?And thou, O! loveliest flower, divinest,?Allur'st alone the passer's eye.
To change thy fate the thought has struck me,?Sweet Rose, in beauty, ah! how blest,?For fair Eliza I will pluck thee,?And thou shalt deck her virgin breast:--?Yet, there thy beauties vainly shining,?No more predominance will claim,?To lilies, all thy pride resigning,?Thou'lt yield without dispute thy fame.
TO CUPID.
Cupid, one arrow kindly spare,?'Twill yield me transport beyond measure,?I'll not be mean, by heaven I swear,?With Mary I'll divide the treasure.
Thou wilt not?--Tyrant, now I see?Thou lovest with grief my soul to harrow;?To her thou'st given thy quiver--for me?Thou hast not left a single arrow!
EVENING MEDITATIONS.
Nature in silence sank, and deep repose,?Behind the mountain, Sol had ceased to glare,?Timid the moon with modest lustre rose,?Willing as though my misery to share.?The past was quick presented to my mind,?A gentle languor calmed each throbbing vein,?My poor heart trembled as the leaves from wind,?My melting soul owned melancholy's reign.?Plain did each action of my life appear,?Each feeling bade some fellow feeling start,?On my parched bosom fell the flowing tear,?And cooled the burning anguish of my heart.?Moments of bliss, I cried, ah! whither flown??When Friendship breathed to me her soothing sighs,?Twice have the fields with golden harvests shone,?And still her blest return stern Fate denies!?Cynthia, thou seest me lone my course pursue,?Hopeless here roving, grief my only guide,?Evenings long past thou call'st to Fancy's view,?Forcing the tear down my pale cheek to glide.?Friendless, of love bereft, what now my joy??Void are my heart and soul, a prey to pain,?To love, to be beloved, can never cloy,?But all on earth besides, alas! is vain!
THE LITTLE DOVE.
BY DMETRIEFF.
The little dove, with heart of sadness,?In silent pain sighs night and day,?What now can wake that heart to gladness??His mate beloved is far away.
He coos no more with soft caresses,?No more is millet sought by him,?The dove his lonesome state distresses,?And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.
From twig to twig now skips the lover,?Filling the grove with accents kind,?On all sides roams the harmless rover,?Hoping his little friend to find.
Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,?Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,?And imperceptibly is wasting,?Wasting away, the little dove!
At length upon the grass he threw him,?Hid in his wing his beak and wept,?There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,?The little dove