The Bakchesarian Fountain and Other Poems | Page 6

"BELIEVE and conquer, fear not for Russia,
Awful the blow the

cross-bearer strikes,
Th'arkan[1] is dreadful, the sword unsparing,
Sharp are our pikes.
"Vain are Napoleon's skill, strength, and cunning,
Nor do his hosts
fill us with despair,
For Michael[2] leads us, and Mary's[3] image
With us we bear.
"To horse, brothers, haste, the foe approaches,
Holy faith guides us,
in God we trust,
Quick, true believers, rush to the onset,
God aids the just!
"Sternly rush on, friends, crush the vile Frenchman,
Firm be as
mountains when tempests blow,
Oh! into Russia grant not the foul
one
Further to go."
Don, broad and mighty, poured forth her children,
The world was
amazed, pale with affright,
Napoleon abandoned his fame, and sought
Safety in 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