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Works of Alexander Pushkin

THE WORKS OF

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

(1799-1837)

Contents

The Poetry

SHORT POEMS

THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAY

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Verse Novel

EUGENE ONEGIN

The Short Stories and Unfinished Novels

PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

THE ROMANTIC POETS: POUSHKIN by Rosa Newmarch

POUSHKIN: HIS WORKS by Rosa Newmarch

LECTURES ON RUSSIAN LITERATURE: PUSHKIN by Ivan Panin

The Biography

A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN by Henry Spalding

© Delphi Classics 2012

Version 1

THE WORKS OF

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

By Delphi Classics, 2012

The Poetry

Baumanskaya Ulitsa, Moscow, Pushkin’s birthplace

A memorial bust marking Pushkin’s birthplace; the house has been demolished and a school now stands in its place.

Pushkin’s father, Sergei Lvovich Pushkin (1767–1848), was from a distinguished family of the Russian nobility, tracing its ancestry back to the 12th century.

Pushkin’s mother, Nadezhda Ossipovna Gannibal (1775–1836), was descended from German and Scandinavian nobility.

SHORT POEMS

Translated by Charles Edward Turner, George Borrow and Ivan Panin

Universally revered as the greatest of all the Russian poets and the founder of his country’s modern literature, Pushkin was born into the nobility in Moscow in 1799. Although destined to have a tragically short life, Pushkin had published his first poem at the age of fifteen and he was already widely recognised as being a poetic genius at the time of his graduation from the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum.

For much of his literary career, Pushkin was censored under the strict surveillance of the Tsar’s political police and he was often unable to publish his works. His political poems led to an interrogation by the Petersburg governor-general and the great poet even endured exile to his mother’s rural estate in Mikhailovskoe from 1824 to 1826.

Pushkin is celebrated for having developed a highly nuanced level of language that went on to influence the course of Russia literature. He is also credited for augmenting the Russian lexicon, much like how Shakespeare influenced the English language. Pushkin’s fashioning of new words, his use of rich vocabulary and his highly sensitive handling of style all laid the foundations for what we now consider to be modern Russian literature. In spite of his brief life, Pushkin bequeathed to posterity works of almost every literary genre, spanning lyric poetry, narrative poetry, unfinished novels, short stories, plays, critical essays and literary epistles.

In this section, readers can explore a selection of some of the poet’s finest lyrical poems, including To K —— , now widely regarded as being the most famous Russian poem. Pushkin’s short poems feature a large variety of themes, with personal, humorous and political works, as well as some of the most beauty love poetry ever written.

The Epiphany Cathedral, Moscow, where Pushkin was christened

Pushkin, c.1801

CONTENTS

TO —— (KERN)

К ***

TO —— (KERN) COMPARISON

Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow

THE DREAMER

THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH

I HAVE OUTLIVED MY EVERY WISH

TO THE SEA

ELEGY

VAIN GIFT, GIFT OF CHANCE

DROWNED

THE UNWASHED

A WINTER MORNING

THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT

A STUDY

TO THE CALUMNIATORS OF RUSSIA

GOD GRANT, MY REASON NE’ER BETRAY ME

THE TALISMAN

THE MERMAID

ANCIENT RUSSIAN SONG

Poems Translated by Ivan Panin

POEMS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL

ELEGY: HAPPY WHO TO HIMSELF CONFESS

FIRST LOVE

ELEGY: HUSHED I SOON SHALL BE

ELEGY: THE EXTINGUISHED JOY OF CRAZY YEARS

POEMS MISCELLANEOUS

SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!

Pushkin, aged 20

TO —— (KERN)

This poem was written in July 1825 and dedicated to Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879). It has the distinction of being labelled the most famous poem in the Russian language. This anonymous translation is followed by the original Russian text and then a comparison of the two texts.

I still recall the marvellous moment:
When you appeared before my gaze
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Like soul of the purest grace.

In torturing fruitless melancholy,
In vanity and loud chaos
I’ve always heard your gentle voice
And glimpsed your features in my dreams.

As years passed and winds scattered
My long-past hopes, and in those days,
I lacked your voice’s divine spell
And the bless’d features of your face.

Held in darkness and separation,
My days dragged in strife.
Lacking faith and inspiration,
Lacking tears and love and life.

But the time arrives; my soul awakens,
And again you appear before me
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Like the soul of purest grace.

Again my heart beats in rapture,
Again everything awakens:
My long-past faith and inspiration,
And the tears and life and love.

1825

Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879), a socialite, memoirist and the poet’s married lover

К ***

Я помню чудное мгновенье:
Передо мной явилась ты,
Как мимолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.

В томленьх грусти безнадежной
В тревогах шумной суеты
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
И снились милые черты.

Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной
Рассеял прежние мечты,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
Твой небесные черты.

В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Тянулись тихо дни мои
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.

Душе настало пробужденье:
И вот опять явилась ты,
Как милолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.

И сердце бьется в упоенье,
И для него воскресли вновь
И божество, и вдохновенье,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.

TO —— (KERN) COMPARISON

Я помню чудное мгновенье:
I still recall the marvellous moment:
Передо мной явилась ты,
When you appeared before my gaze
Как мимолетное виденье,
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Как гений чистой красоты.
Like soul of the purest grace.

В томленьх грусти безнадежной
In torturing fruitless melancholy,
В тревогах шумной суеты
In vanity and loud chaos
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
I’ve always heard your gentle voice
И снились милые черты.
And glimpsed your features in my dreams.

Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной
As years passed and winds scattered
Рассеял прежние мечты,
My long-past hopes, and in those days,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
I lacked your voice’s divine spell
Твой небесные черты.
And the bless’d features of your face.

В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Held in darkness and separation,
Тянулись тихо дни мои
My days dragged in strife.
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Lacking faith and inspiration,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.
Lacking tears and love and life.

Душе настало пробужденье:
But the time arrives; my soul awakens,
И вот опять явилась ты,
And again you appear before me
Как милолетное виденье,
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Как гений чистой красоты.
Like the soul of purest grace.

И сердце бьется в упоенье,
Again my heart beats in rapture,
И для него воскресли вновь
Again everything awakens:
И божество, и вдохновенье,
My long-past faith and inspiration,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.
And the tears and life and love.

Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow

THE DREAMER

The moon pursues her stealthy course,
The shades grow gray upon the hill,
Silence has fallen on the stream,
Fresh from the valley blows the wind;
The songster of spring days has hushed
His notes in waste of gloomy groves,
The herds are couched along the fields,
And calm the flight of midnight hour.

And night the peaceful ingle-nook
Has with her misty livery clad;
In stove the flames have ceased to dart,
And candle down to socket burned;
The saintly face of household gods
Now darkly gloom from modest shrine,
And taper pale in dimness burns
Before the guardians of home.

With head in hand bent lowly down,
In sweet forgetfulness deep plunged,
I lose myself in fancy dreams,
And lie awake on lonely couch;
As with the weird dark shades of night,
Illumined by the soft moon’s rays,
Wingèd dreams, in hurrying crowds,
Flock down and strongly seize my soul.

And now flows forth a soft, soft voice,
The golden chords in music tremble;
And in the hour when all is still,
The dreamer young begins his song,
With secret ache of soul possessed
And dreams that come from God alone,
With flying hand he boldly smites
The breathing strings of heavenly lyre.

Blessed is he who, born in lowly hut,
Prays not for fortune or for wealth;
From him great Jove, with watchful eyes,
Will turn mishap that teems with ruin;
At eve, on lotos flowers couched,
He lies enwrapped in softest sleep;
Nor harshest sound of warrior’s trump
Has power to stir him from his dream.

Let glory, with her daring front,
Strike loudly on her noisy shield;
In vain she tempts me from afar,
With skinny finger red in blood;
In vain war’s gaudy banners float,
Or battle-ranks their pomp display;
Peace has higher charms for gentle heart, -
Nor do I care for glory’s prize.
In solitude my blood is tamed,
And tranquilly the days pass by:
From God I have the gift of song,
Of gifts the rarest, most divine;
And never has the Muse betrayed me:
Be thou with me, oh goddess dear,
The vilest home or desert wild
Shall have a beauty of their own.

In dusky dawn of golden days
The untried singer thou hast blessed,
As with a wreath of myrtle fresh
Thou didst encrown his childish brow,
And, bringing with thee light from heaven,
Radiant made his humble cell;
And, gently breathing, thou didst lean
O’er his cradle with blessing sweet.

For ever be my friend and guide
Even to the threshold of the grave!
O’er me hover with gentlest dreams,
And shroud me with thy shielding wings!
Banish far all doubt and sorrow,
Possess the mind with fond deceit,
A glory shed o’er my far life,
And scatter wide its darkest gloom!

Thus peace shall bless my parting hour,
The genius of Death shall come,
And whisper, knocking at the door,
“The dwelling of the shades awaits thee!”
E’en so, on winter eve sweet sleep
Frequents with joy the home of peace,
With lotos crowned, and lowly bent
On restful staff of languid ease

THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH

The world he fled,
Of love and pleasure once the nursling,
And is as one who lies in sleep.
Or cold of nameless tomb, forgot.

Time was, he loved our village games,
When as the girls beneath the shade
Of trees would loot the meadow free;-
But now in village song and dance
No more is heard his greeting light.

His elders had with envy marked
His easy gait and bearing gay,
And, smiling sadly, ‘mongst themselves
Oft shook their hoary heads, and said:
“We too once loved the choral dance,
And shone as wits and jesters keen:
But wait: the years will make their round.
And thou shalt be what we are now.
Be taught by us, life’s jocund guest,
The world to thee will soon prove cold:
Thou now mayst dance!”.... The elders live,
Whilst he, in ripest bloom of youth,
Has, fading, perished ere his time.
Wild the feast, and loud the song-,
Although his voice is ever mute;
New friends now lill the vacant seat;
Seldom, seldom, when maidens chat,
And talk of love, his name is spoke;
Of all, whose hearts his words made flame,
It may be, one will shed a tear,
As memory recalls some scene
Of joy long buried in his grave —
And wherefore weep?

Bathed by a stream,
In calm array, the lines of tombs,
Each guarded by its wooden cross,
Lie hidden in the antique grove,
There, close beside the highroad’s edge,
Where old beech-trees their branches wave,
His heart at peace and free from care,
Sleeps his last sleep the gentle youth.

In vain, the light of day pours down,
Or morn from mid-sky shines full bright,
Or, splashing round the senseless tomb,
The river purls, or forest wails;
In vain, at early morn, in quest
Of berries red, the village maid
Shall to the stream her basket bring,
And, frightened, dip her naked foot
Into the cold spring-waters fresh;
No sound can wake, or call him forth
The silent walls of his sad grave.

I HAVE OUTLIVED MY EVERY WISH

I have outlived my every wish,
Each dear dream seen rudely broken,
And naught remains but woe and plaint,
Sole heritage of vacant heart.

Despoiled by storms of jealous fate;
The tree of life has faded fast;
I live in grief and loneliness,
And wait in hope, the end may come.

As when the last, forgotten leaf,
That quivers on the naked branch,
By nipping frost is sudden caught,
And shriek of winter’s storm is heard.

TO THE SEA

Farewell, thou free, all — conquering sea!
No more wilt thou before me roll
In endless flow thy dark-blue billows
And revel in thy beauty proud.

Like mournful voice of friend departing.
Like summons sad to bid adieu,
Thy murmur soft from region far
I hearken, but shall hear no more.
For thou hast been ray soul’s desired bound,
As oft along thy pebbly shore
With slow and measured step I wandered,
And gladly lost in thoughts mine own.

How I have loved thy mystic echoes;
Dull sounds, a voice from the abyss;
In evening hour, thy peaceful ripple
Thy wayward bursts of sudden rage!

In fragile boat the fisher sailing
Thou lovst to shield from wave’s caprice,
And safe it skims o’er surging breakers;
But with unconquered strength wilt rise,
And vessel proud to pieces dash.

Too long, a willing slave, I have served,
Removed from thee, a sordid world;
Too long forgot with song to greet thee,
And o’er thy crested waves to waft
My verse sonorous and sincere.

‘Thou didst wait, thou didst call, but a spell
My vainly struggling soul subdued;
Enchanted by a mighty passion,
I still remained from thee estranged.

But why complain? Whither now should I
My vain and aimless steps direct?
O’er thy realms of waste but one small spot
Can speak to me or stir my soul:
A tiny rock, the glorious grave
And haunt of dreams of power lost,
Remembrance bare of fallen greatness,
Where raging pined Napoleon.

‘T was there he died, slow torture s victim,
And now we mourn a loss as great:
For ever hushed the song of tempest,
That crowned him lord of soul of man.

He died bewept by freedom’s children,
Bequeathing them his deathless crown.
Weep, ocean, weep, shed tny stormy tears!
His sweetest songs he sang to thee.

For on his brow was stamped thine image,
He, as it were, was child of thee;
Like thee, sublime, fathomless, alone;
Like thee, unconquered. unsubdued!

The world is dull and empty — And now,
Whither, ocean, wouldst thou bring me?
Where’er man flies, his fate ne’er changes;
And should he sip the cup of joy,
Some tyrant’s hand will dash it down.

Once more, farewell! And I thy beauty
And charms sublime shall ne’er forget;
And long, long shall, trembling, hear at night
The echo of thy mighty roar.
To forest shade, or the silent plain,
I ne’er shall bring a thought, save thine;
See thy cliffs, thy gleam, thy yawning gulfs,
And hear the chatter of thy waves.

ELEGY

Beneath the deep-blue sky of her own native land,
She weary grew, and, drooping, pined away:
She died and passed, and over me I oft-times feel
Her youthful shadow fondly hovering;
And all the while a gaping chasm divides us both.
In vain I would my aching grief awake:
From tongue indifferent I heard the fatal news,
With ear indifferent I learned her death.
And yet, ‘tis true, I loved her once with ardent soul,
My heart of hearts enwrapt in her alone;
With all the tenderness of languor torturing,
With all the racking pains of fond despair!
Where now my love, my pains? Alas, my barren soul
For her, so light and easy of belief,
For memory of days that nothing can recall,
To song or tears is dead and voiceless now.

VAIN GIFT, GIFT OF CHANCE

Vain gift, vain gift of blindest chance,
Life, why wert thou granted me?
Or why, by fate’s supreme decree,
Wert thou foredoomed to sorrow?
Alas, what god’s unfriendly power
Called me forth from nothingness,
My troubled soul with passion filled,
Made my mind a prey to doubt?

An aimless future lies before,
Dry my heart and void my mind.
My soul is dwarfed and crushed beneath
Life’s dull riot monotone.

DROWNED

The children ran up to the cot,
And eager to the father cried:
“Daddie, daddie, come quick, our nets
A body dead to shore have dragged!”
“You lie, you lie, you little imps!”
The angry father roughly growled:
“To think that these my children are!
I’ll teach you talk about dead men.”

Stern as judge, he ‘gan to question;
“Alas, the truth I ne’er shall know,
There’s nothing to be done! Eh, wife,
Give here my cloak, for I must go.
Where is this corpse?” “There, father, there!”
In truth, upon the river bank,
Where they the fishing-nets had cast,
A dead man lay. upon the sand.
The corpse had lost its comely form,
All swollen now, of ghastly hue.
Some maddened wretch, who in despair
Had freed his erring soul from woe;
Some fisher caught in angry sea;
Some reeling royster homeward bound:
Or merchant rich, with well — filled purse,
Attacked by cunning thieves and robbed.

With this no peasant has concern!
He looks around, and sets to work;
With sleeves up-tucked, he quickly drags
To water’s edge the sodden corpse;
And with his oar it pushes off
Adown the open, flowing stream;
And with the tide the dead man floats
In search of grave with cross o’erhead.

And long the body, tossed by waves,
Rolled, floating, like a living thing;
The peasant watched it out of sight,
And then he thoughtful home returned:
“Now, brats, to none a word of this,
And wastel-loaf I’ll give to each;
But good heed take, and hold your tongues,
Or else a whipping you shall have!”

The night was rough, the storm-blast raged,
The river overflowed its banks;
Within the peasant’s smoky hut
The flickering lath-torch spluttered;
The children slept, the housewife dozed.
And on his shelf the husband lay;
When, hark! above the tempest’s howl
He heard some one at window knock.

“Who’s there?”.... Eh, open, my good friend
“Why, what ill luck is there abroad,
That thou, like Cain, dost prowl the night?
The devil take thee quick from hence!
For roaming vagrants where find place?
Our house is small and close enough.”
And, with unwilling, lazy hand,
He window opened and looked out.

From out a cloud the moon peered forth...,
Before him stood a naked form,
With water dripping from his beard;
His eyes were open, motionless;
A lifeless statue, numb and cold,
His bony hands drooped helpless down;
And o’er his swollen body crawled,
Fast clinging, black and slimy things.

The peasant quick the window closed;
He knew full well that naked guest,
And swooned away. “Ah, mayst thou burst!”
He, trembling, muttered trough his teeth.
Uncanny thoughts possessed his brain,
And all that night he sleepless tossed:
Till morn he heard the ceaseless kuock,
At window first, and then at door.

Among the people goes the tale,
How from that night of dread and crime,
Each year the half-crazed peasant waits
The destined day and guest unknown.
From early morn the clouds hang low,
The night grows rough and wild with storm;
And lo! the dead man ceaseless knocks
At window first, and then at door.

THE UNWASHED

A poet from enchanted lyre
Struck notes of mildest melody;
He sang.... but cold and all unmoved,
The mob unconsecrated stood,
And, gaping, listened to his song.

Amongst themselves the mob discussed:
“Why sing with voice so musical?
The ear is tickled, but in vain,
What is the goal he leads us to?
Why this thrumming? What would he teach?
Our hearts why stir, our souls torment,
Like one possessed with unknown tongue?
His song is free as lawless winds,
And, like the winds, can bear no fruit:
What good or profit can it bring?

POET.
Silence! mob of senseless grumblers,
Day-labourers, base slaves of slaves,
I loathe your shallow murmurs vile.
Ye worms of earth, no sons of heaven,
Your God is profit:.... by the pound
You weigh Apollo Belvedere:
The iron pot is dearer held,
Since it serves well to cook your food.

THE UNWASHED.
Nay, if thou be elect of God,
Thy gift, dear messenger divine,
Use kindly for our good and weal;
Correct and guide thy brethren’s hearts.
We are, thou sayst, small-souled in aim,
Wicked, shameless, and ungrateful;
Our hearts are cold and dead to love,
Calumniators, slaves, and fools;
Each vice finds nest within our souls.
But thou art lover of thy kind,
And lessons bold in truth canst give;
And we will listen to thy words.

POET.
Away! Begone! What common tie
Can poet bind to such as you?
Be boldly hard in vice as rock;
Nor song, nor lyre can give you life,
In soul as senseless as the tomb;
For centuries you have well reaped,
And of your follies won the prize,
The whip, the prison, and the axe.
Begone, dull slaves of ease and gain!
Men in your city’s noisy streets
The rubbish sweep.... a useful work!
But think ye that the prophet-priests,
Forgetful of their calling high,
Will quit the altar-sacrifice,
And meekly take in hands your brooms?
To take part in the world’s turmoil,
In sordid gain, in vulgar strife,
We are not born, but have received
The inspired gift of sweetest song.

A WINTER MORNING

The frost and sun; a glorious day!
And thou, my sweetling, still dost sleep:
‘Tis time, my fairest, to awake:
Ope quick thine eyes with slumber dulled,
And gladly hail the Northern Morn,
Shine forth, thyself the Northern Star!

Last night the snow-storm whirled and roared,
The sky was hidden in white mist;
The yellow moon peered feebly through
The thick and gloomy flanks of cloud;
And thou satst dull and ill at ease,
But, darling, now.... look out abroad!

Beneath the richly woven web
Of dark-blue sky of deepest dye
The snow lies glittering in the sun:
The forest dense alone is black,
The firs are green with hoary rime,
And, bound in ice, the river gleams.

And all the room with amber glow
Is lighted up. The blazing fire
Up chimney flames with crackling gay,
‘Tis good to muse in easy-chair:
But knowst thou what?’ Tis better far
To harness quick the chestnut mare.

And o’er the morning s snow our steed,
Full eager, with impatience hot,
Shall, panting, bear us, dearest, quick;
Across the empty fields we’ll scud
Through thickest forests none could pass,
Along the shore so dear to me.

THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT

The noisy joys of thoughtless years are spent;
And all, like head confused with drink, is dulled.
But, as with wine, the woe of days gone by
With force more strong than newer woe torments.
A dreary path before me lies. Fresh toils
To drown me in a sea of trouble threat.

And yet, dear friends of youth. I would not die!
I wish to live, that I may muse and toil;
I feel that joy shall mingle with my woe,
Relieve my care, and heal my doubtings sad.
Once more, I’ll drink the cup of harmony,
And drown my thoughts in flood of soothing tears;
And, haply, in the setting hour of life
Love’s farewell smile ‘shall lighten up the dark.

A STUDY

And now, my chubby critic, fat burly cynic,
For ever mocking and deriding my sad muse,
Draw near, and take a seat, I pray, close beside me,
And let us come to terms with this accursèd spleen.
But why that frown? Is it so hard to leave our woes,
A moment to forget ourselves in joyous song?
And now, admire the view! That sorry row of huts;
Behind, a level long descent of blackish earth,
Above, one layer thick of gray, unbroken clouds.
But where the cornfields gay or where the shady woods?
And where the river? In the court there, by the fence,
Shoot up two lean and withered trees to glad the eye;
Just two, no more; and one of them, you will observe,
By autumn rains has long been bared of its last leaf;
The scanty leaves upon the other only wait
I’he first loud breeze, to fall and foul the pond below.
No other sign of life, no dog to watch the yard.
But stay, Ivan I see, and two old women near;
With head unbared, the coffin of his child he bears,
And from afar to drowsy sexton loudly shouts,

And bids him call the priest, and church-door to unlock:
“Look sharp!The brat we should have buried long ago!”

TO THE CALUMNIATORS OF RUSSIA

What mean these angry cries, haranguers of the mob?
And wherefore hurl your curses at poor Russia’s head?
And what has stirred your rage? Our Lietva’s discontent?
Your wrangling cease, and let the Slavs arrange their feud:
It is an old domestic strife, the legacy
Of ages past, a quarrel you can ne’er decide.
Already long among themselves
These tribes have fought and weaved intrigues;
And more than once, as fate has willed,
We, or they, have bent before the storm.
But who shall victor end the feud,
The haughty Pole, or Russian true?
Shall streams Slavonic with Russian sea commingle,
Or leave it dry? That is the question.
Leave us in peace! You have not read
These sacred oracles of blood;
This fierce, domestic quarrel-feud
Seems to you both strange and senseless!
Kremlin, Praga, mean naught to you!
You mock and scorn as childish whim
The combat fierce we wage for life;
And more.... ‘tis nothing new.... you hate us!
But why this hate? Na}r, answer, why?
Is it because, when burning Moscow’s ruins flamed,
We would not own his brutal rule,
Before whose nod you, humbled, crouched?
Because we rose and dashed to ground
The idol that so long had weighed the empires down,
And boldly with our blood redeemed
Lost Europe’s honour, freedom, peace?

Your threats are loud; now, try and prove as loud in deed!
Think ye, the aged hero, sleeping in his bed,
No more has strength to wield the sword of Ismail?
Or that the word of Russian Tsar has weaker grown?
Or have we ne’er with Europe warred,
And lost the victor’s cunning skill?
Or are we few? Erom shores of Perm to southern
Tauris,
From Finnish cliffs of ice to fiery Colchis,
From Kremlin’s battered battlements
As far as China’s circling wall,
Not one shall fail his country’s call!
Then send, assemblies of the West,
Your fiercest troops in full array!
In Russian plains we’ll find them place
To sleep with those who fell before!

GOD GRANT, MY REASON NE’ER BETRAY ME

God grant, my reason ne’er betray me;
Nay, better, fever-waste or want.
Nay, better, toil and starve.

‘Tis not that I my mind or wit
Have e’er prized high, or that with them
I were not glad to part.
If but my freedom were untouched,
With joy and gladness would I make
My home in forest dark.

With raving frenzy I should sing,
Myself forget, and lose my soul
In weird discordant dreams.

Strength uncontrolled would then be mine,
Like wildest storm that sweeps the fields,
And lays the forest bare.

Then I should hearken song of waves,
Be filled with joy, and gaze upon
The empty, vacant sky.

Ay, there’s the rub: to lose my mind,
Be feared, as men do fear the plague,
And close in prison locked:

And when the madman’s chained, in crowds
They’ll come, and through the grating stare,
And tease the surly beast.

And then, at night, compelled to hear,
Instead of nightingale’s high note,
Or forest’s murmur soft,

The frantic shrieks of prison-mates,
Muttered oaths of warders sullen,
And creaking noise of chains.

THE TALISMAN

Where fierce the surge with awful bellow
Doth ever lash the rocky wall;
And where the moon most brightly mellow
Dost beam when mists of evening fall;
Where midst his harem’s countless blisses
The Moslem spends his vital span,
A Sorceress there with gentle kisses
Presented me a Talisman.

And said: until thy latest minute
Preserve, preserve my Talisman;
A secret power it holds within it —
‘Twas love, true love the gift did plan.
From pest on land, or death on ocean,
When hurricanes its surface fan,
O object of my fond devotion!
Thou scap’st not by my Talisman.

The gem in Eastern mine which slumbers,
Or ruddy gold ‘twill not bestow;
‘Twill not subdue the turban’d numbers,
Before the Prophet’s shrine which bow;
Nor high through air on friendly pinions
Can bear thee swift to home and clan,
From mournful climes and strange dominions —
From South to North — my Talisman.

But oh! when crafty eyes thy reason
With sorceries sudden seek to move,
And when in Night’s mysterious season
Lips cling to thine, but not in love —
From proving then, dear youth, a booty
To those who falsely would trepan
From new heart wounds, and lapse from duty,
Protect thee shall my Talisman.

THE MERMAID

Close by a lake, begirt with forest,
To save his soul, a Monk intent,
In fasting, prayer and labours sorest
His days and nights, secluded, spent;
A grave already to receive him
He fashion’d, stooping, with his spade,
And speedy, speedy death to give him,
Was all that of the Saints he pray’d.

As once in summer’s time of beauty,
On bended knee, before his door,
To God he paid his fervent duty,
The woods grew more and more obscure:
Down o’er the lake a fog descended,
And slow the full moon, red as blood,
Midst threat’ning clouds up heaven wended —
Then gazed the Monk upon the flood.

He gaz’d, and, fear his mind surprising,
Himself no more the hermit knows:
He sees with foam the waters rising,
And then subsiding to repose,
And sudden, light as night-ghost wanders,
A female thence her form uprais’d,
Pale as the snow which winter squanders,
And on the bank herself she plac’d.

She gazes on the hermit hoary,
And combs her long hair, tress by tress;
The Monk he quakes, but on the glory
Looks wistful of her loveliness;
Now becks with hand that winsome creature,
And now she noddeth with her head,
Then sudden, like a fallen meteor,
She plunges in her watery bed.

No sleep that night the old man cheereth,
No prayer throughout next day he pray’d
Still, still, against his wish, appeareth
Before him that mysterious maid.
Darkness again the wood investeth,
The moon midst clouds is seen to sail,
And once more on the margin resteth
The maiden beautiful and pale.

With head she bow’d, with look she courted,
And kiss’d her hand repeatedly,
Splashed with the water, gaily sported,
And wept and laugh’d like infancy —
She names the monk, with tones heart-urging
Exclaims “O Monk, come, come to me!”
Then sudden midst the waters merging
All, all is in tranquillity.

On the third night the hermit fated
Beside those shores of sorcery,
Sat and the damsel fair awaited,
And dark the woods began to be —
The beams of morn the night mists scatter,
No Monk is seen then, well a day!
And only, only in the water
The lasses view’d his beard of grey.

ANCIENT RUSSIAN SONG

The windel-straw nor grass so shook and trembled;
As the good and gallant stripling shook and trembled;
A linen shirt so fine his frame invested,
O’er the shirt was drawn a bright pelisse of scarlet
The sleeves of that pelisse depended backward,
The lappets of its front were button’d backward,
And were spotted with the blood of unbelievers;
See the good and gallant stripling reeling goeth,
From his eyeballs hot and briny tears distilling;
On his bended bow his figure he supporteth,
Till his bended bow has lost its goodly gilding;
Not a single soul the stripling good encounter’d,
Till encounter’d he the mother dear who bore him:
O my boy, O my treasure, and my darling!
By what mean hast thou render’d thee so drunken,
To the clay that thou bowest down thy figure,
And the grass and the windel-straws art grasping?
To his Mother thus the gallant youth made answer:
‘Twas not I, O mother dear, who made me drunken,
But the Sultan of the Turks has made me drunken
With three potent, various potations;
The first of them his keenly cutting sabre;
The next of them his never failing jav’lin;
The third of them his pistol’s leaden bullet.

II.

O rustle not, ye verdant oaken branches!
Whilst I tell the gallant stripling’s tale of daring;
When this morn they led the gallant youth to judgment
Before the dread tribunal of the grand Tsar,
Then our Tsar and Gosudar began to question:
Tell me, tell me, little lad, and peasant bantling!
Who assisted thee to ravage and to plunder;
I trow thou hadst full many wicked comrades.
I’ll tell thee, Tsar! our country’s hope and glory,
I’ll tell thee all the truth, without a falsehood:
Thou must know that I had comrades, four in number;
Of my comrades four the first was gloomy midnight;
The second was a steely dudgeon dagger;
The third it was a swift and speedy courser;
The fourth of my companions was a bent bow;
My messengers were furnace-harden’d arrows.
Replied the Tsar, our country’s hope and glory:
Of a truth, thou little lad, and peasant’s bantling!
In thieving thou art skill’d and giving answers;
For thy answers and thy thieving I’ll reward thee
With a house upon the windy plain constructed
Of two pillars high, surmounted by a cross-beam.

III.

O thou field of my delight so fair and verdant!
Thou scene of all my happiness and pleasure!
O how charmingly Nature hath array’d thee
With the soft green grass and juicy clover,
And with corn-flowers blooming and luxuriant.
One thing there is alone, that doth deform thee;
In the midst of thee, O field, so fair and verdant!
A clump of bushes stands — a clump of hazels,
Upon their very top there sits an eagle,
And upon the bushes’ top — upon the hazels,
Compress’d within his claw he holds a raven,
And its hot blood he sprinkles on the dry ground;
And beneath the bushes’ clump — beneath the hazels,
Lies void of life the good and gallant stripling;
All wounded, pierc’d and mangled is his body.
As the little tiny swallow or the chaffinch,
Round their warm and cosey nest are seen to hover,
So hovers there the mother dear who bore him;
And aye she weeps, as flows a river’s water;
His sister weeps as flows a streamlet’s water;
His youthful wife, as falls the dew from heaven —
The Sun, arising, dries the dew of heaven.

Poems Translated by Ivan Panin

POEMS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL

MON PORTRAIT

Vous me demandez mon portrait,
Mais peint d’après nature:
Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait,
Quoique en miniature.

Je sais un jeune polisson
Encore dans les classes:
Point sot, je le dis sans façon
Et sans fades grimaces.

Onc, il ne fut de babillard,
Ni docteur de Sorbonne
Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard
Que moi-même en personne.

Ma taille à celle des plus longs
Los n’est point égalée;
J’ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds,
Et la tête bouclée.

J’aime et le monde, et son fracas,
Je hais la solitude;
J’abhorre et noises et débats,
Et tant soit peu l’étude.

Spectacles, bals me plaisent fort,
Et d’après ma pensée
Je dirais ce que j’aime encore,
Si je n’étais au lycée.

Après cela, mon cher ami,
L’on peut me reconnâitre:
Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit,
Je veux toujours parâitre.
Vrai demon pour l’espièglerie,

Vrai singe par sa mine,
Beaucoup et trop d’étourderie, —
Ma foi — voilà Poushkine.

MY PEDIGREE

WITH scorning laughter at a fellow writer,
In a chorus the Russian scribes
With name of aristocrat me chide:
Just look, if please you... nonsense what!
Court Coachman not I, nor assessor,
Nor am I nobleman by cross;
No academician, nor professor,
I’m simply of Russia a citizen.

Well I know the times’ corruption,
And, surely, not gainsay it shall I:
Our nobility but recent is:
The more recent it, the more noble ‘t is.
But of humbled races a chip,
And, God be thanked, not alone
Of ancient Lords am scion I;
Citizen I am, a citizen!

Not in cakes my grandsire traded,
Not a prince was newly-baked he;
Nor at church sang he in choir,
Nor polished he the boots of Tsar;
Was not escaped a soldier he
From the German powdered ranks;
How then aristocrat am I to be?
God be thanked, I am but a citizen.

My grandsire Radsha in warlike service
To Alexander Nefsky was attached.
The Crowned Wrathful, Fourth Ivan,
His descendants in his ire had spared.
About the Tsars the Pushkins moved;
And more than one acquired renown,
When against the Poles battling was
Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain.

When treason conquered was and falsehood,
And the rage of storm of war,
When the Romanoffs upon the throne
The nation called by its Chart —
We upon it laid our hands;
The martyr’s son then favored us;
Time was, our race was prized,
But I... am but a citizen obscure.

Our stubborn spirit us tricks has played;
Most irrepressible of his race,
With Peter my sire could not get on;
And for this was hung by him.
Let his example a lesson be:
Not contradiction loves a ruler,
Not all can be Prince Dolgorukys,
Happy only is the simple citizen.

My grandfather, when the rebels rose
In the palace of Peterhof,
Like Munich, faithful he remained
To the fallen Peter Third;
To honor came then the Orloffs,
But my sire into fortress, prison —
Quiet now was our stem race,
And I was born merely — citizen.

Beneath my crested seal
The roll of family charts I’ve kept;
Not running after magnates new,
My pride of blood I have subdued;
I’m but an unknown singer
Simply Pushkin, not Moussin,
My strength is mine, not from court:
I am a writer, a citizen.

1830.

MY MONUMENT

A MONUMENT not hand-made I have for me erected;
The path to it well-trodden will not overgrow;
Risen higher has it with unbending head
Than the monument of Alexander.

No! not all of me shall die! my soul in hallowed lyre
Shall my dust survive, and escape destruction —
And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sublunar
One bard at least living shall remain.

My name will travel over the whole of Russia great,
And there pronounce my name shall every living tongue:
The Slav’s proud scion, and the Finn, and the savage yet
Tungus, and the Calmuck, lover of the steppe.

And long to the nation I shall be dear:
For rousing with my lyre its noble feelings,
For extolling freedom in a cruel age,
For calling mercy upon the fallen.

The bidding of God, O Muse, obey.
Fear not insult, ask not crown:
Praise and blame take with indifference
And dispute not with the fool!

August, 1836.

MY MUSE

IN the days of my youth she was fond of me,
And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me.
To me with smile she listened; and already gently
Along the openings echoing of the woods
Was playing I with fingers tender:
Both hymns solemn, god-inspired
And peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd.
From morn till night in oak’s dumb shadow
To the strange maid’s teaching intent I listened;
And with sparing reward me gladdening
Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear,
From my hands the flute herself she took.
Now filled the wood was with breath divine
And the heart with holy enchantment filled.

1823.

POEMS OF LOVE

THE STORM-MAID

HAST thou seen on the rock the maid,
In robe of white above the waves,
When seething in the storm dark
Played the sea with its shores, —
When the glare of lightning hourly
With rosy glimmer her lighted up,
And the wind beating and flapping
Struggled with her flying robe?

Beautiful’s the sea in the storm dark,
Glorious is the sky even without its blue;
But trust me: on the rock the maid
Excels both wave, and sky, and storm.

1825.

THE BARD

HAVE ye beard in the woods the nightly voice
Of the bard of love, of the bard of his grief?
When the fields in the morning hour were still,
The flute’s sad sound and simple
Have ye heard?

Have ye met in the desert darkness of the forest
The bard of love, the bard of his grief?
Was it a track of tears, was it a smile,
Or a quiet glance filled with melancholy,
Have ye met?’

Have ye sighed, listening to the calm voice
Of the bard of love, of the bard of grief?
When in the woods the youth ye saw
And met the glance of his dulled eyes,
Have ye sighed?

1816.

SPANISH LOVE-SONG

EVENING Zephyr
Waves the ether.
Murmurs,
Rushes
The Guadalquivir.

Now the golden moon has risen,
Quiet,... Tshoo... guitar’s now heard....
Now the Spanish girl young
O’er the balcony has leaned.

Evening Zephyr
Waves the ether.
Murmurs,
Rushes
The Guadalquivir.

Drop thy mantle, angel gentle,
And appear as fair as day!
Thro’ the iron balustrade
Put thy wondrous tender foot!
Evening Zephyr
Waves the ether.
Murmurs,
Rushes
The Guadalquivir.

1824.

LOVE

BITTERLY groaning, jealous maid the youth was scolding;
He, on her shoulder leaning, suddenly was in slumber lost.
Silent forthwith is the maid; his light sleep now fondles she
Now she smiles upon him, and is shedding gentle tears.

1835

JEALOUSY

DAMP day’s light is quenched: damp night’s darkness
Stretches over the sky its leaden garment.
Like a ghost, from behind the pine wood
Foggy moon has risen....
— All brings upon my soul darkness grievous.
Far, far away rises the shining moon,
There the earth is filled with evening warmth
There the sea moveth with luxuriant wave
Under the heavens blue....
Now is the time. On the hillside now she walks
To the shore washed by noisy waves.
There, under the billowed cliffs
Alone she sits now melancholy....
Alone...

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