none before her weeping, grieves not,
Her knees none kisses in ecstasy.
Alone... to lips of none she is yielding
Her shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers.
None is worthy of her heavenly love.
Is it not so? Thou art alone.... Thou weepest....
And I at peace? —
But if —
1823.
IN AN ALBUM
THE name of me, what is it to thee
Die it shall like the grievous sound
Of wave, playing on distant shore,
As sound of night in forest dark.
Upon the sheet of memory
Its traces dead leave it shall
Inscriptions-like of grave-yard
In some foreign tongue.
What is in it? Long ago forgotten
In tumultuous waves and fresh
To thy soul not give it shall
Pure memories and tender.
But on sad days, in calmness
Do pronounce it sadly;
Say then: I do remember thee —
1829.
THE AWAKING
On earth one heart is where yet I live!
YE dreams, ye dreams,
Where is your sweetness?
Where thou, where thou
O — joy of night?
Disappeared has it,
The joyous dream;
And solitary
In darkness deep
I awaken.
Round my bed
Is silent night.
At once are cooled,
At once are fled,
All in a crowd
The dreams of Love —
Still with longing
The soul is filled
And grasps of sleep
The memory.
O — Love, O Love,
O — hear my prayer:
Again send me
Those visions thine,
And on the morrow
Raptured anew
Let me die
Without awaking!
1816.
ELEGY: HAPPY WHO TO HIMSELF CONFESS
HAPPY who to himself confess
His passion dares without terror;
Happy who in fate uncertain
By modest hope is fondled;
Happy who by foggy moonbeams
Is led to midnight joyful
And with faithful key who gently
The door unlocks of his beloved.
But for me in sad my life
No joy there is of secret pleasure;
Hope’s early flower faded is,
By struggle withered is life’s flower.
Youth away flies melancholy,
And droop with me life’s roses;
But by Love tho’ long forgot,
Forget Love’s tears I cannot.
FIRST LOVE
NOT at once our youth is faded,
Not at once our joys forsake us,
And happiness we unexpected
Yet embrace shall more than once;
But ye, impressions never-dying
Of newly trepidating Love,
And thou, first flame of Intoxication,
Not flying back are coming ye!
ELEGY: HUSHED I SOON SHALL BE
HUSHED I soon shall be. But if on sorrow’s day
My songs to me with pensive play replied;
But if the youths to me, in silence listening
At my love’s long torture were marvelling;
But if thou thyself, to tenderness yielding
Repeated in quiet my melancholy verses
And didst love my heart’s passionate language;
But if I am loved: — grant then, O dearest friend,
That my beautiful beloved’s coveted name
Breathe life into my lyre’s farewell.
When for aye embraced I am by sleep of Death,
Over my urn do with tenderness pronounce:
“By me he loved was, to me he owed
Of his love and song his last inspiration.”
THE BURNT LETTER
GOOD-BYE, love-letter, good-bye! ‘T is her command....
How long I waited, how long my hand
To the fire my joys to yield was loath!...
But eno’, the hour has come: bum, letter of my love!
I am ready: listens more my soul to nought.
Now the greedy flame thy sheets shall lick...
A minute!... they crackle, they blaze... a light smoke
Curls and is lost with prayer mine.
Now the finger’s faithful imprint losing
Bums the melted wax.... O Heavens!
Done it is! curled in are the dark sheets;
Upon their ashes light the lines adored
Are gleaming.... My breast is heavy. Ashes dear,
In my sorrowful lot but poor consolation,
Remain for aye with me on my weary breast....
1825.
SING NOT, BEAUTY
SING not, Beauty, in my presence,
Of Transcaucasia sad the songs,
Of distant shore, another life,
The memory to me they bring.
Alas, alas, remind they do,
These cruel strains of thine,
Of steppes, and night, and of the moon
And of distant, poor maid’s features.
The vision loved, tender, fated,
Forget can I, when thee I see
But when thou singest, then before me
Up again it rises.
Sing not, Beauty, in my presence
Of Transcaucasia sad the songs,
Of distant shore, another life
The memory to me they bring.
SIGNS
To thee I rode: living dreams then
Behind me winding in playful crowd;
My sportive trot my shoulder over
The moon upon my right was chasing.
From thee I rode: other dreams now.
My loving soul now sad was,
And the moon at left my side
Companion mine now sad was.
To dreaming thus in quiet ever
Singers we are given over;
Marks thus of superstition
Soul’s feeling with are in accord!
A PRESENTIMENT
THE clouds again are o’er me,
Have gathered in the stillness;
Again me with misfortune
Envious fate now threatens.
Will I keep my defiance?
Will I bring against her
The firmness and patience
Of my youthful pride?
Wearied by a stormy life
I await the storm fretless
Perhaps once more safe again
A harbor shall I find....
But I feel the parting nigh,
Unavoidable, fearful hour,
To press thy hand for the last time,
I haste to thee, my angel.
Angel gentle, angel calm,
Gently tell me: fare thee well.
Be thou grieved: thy tender gaze
Either drop or to me raise.
The memory of thee now shall
To my soul replace
The strength, the pride and the hope,
The daring of my former days!
1828.
IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND
IN vain, dear friend, to conceal I tried
The turmoil cold of my grieving soul;
Now me thou knowest; goes by the intoxication.
And no longer thee I love....
Vanished for aye the bewitching hours,
The beautiful time has passed,
Youthful desires extinguished are
And lifeless hope is in my heart....
LOVE’S DEBT
FOR the shores of thy distant home
Thou hast forsaken the foreign land;
In a memorable, sad hour
I — before thee cried long.
Tho’ cold my hands were growing
Thee back to hold they tried;
And begged of thee my parting groan
The gnawing weariness not to break.
But from my bitter kisses thou
Thy lips away hast torn;
From the land of exile dreary
Calling me to another land.
Thou saidst: on the day of meeting
Beneath a sky forever blue
Olives’ shade beneath, love’s kisses
Again, my friend, we shall unite.
But where, alas! the vaults of sky
Shining are with glimmer blue,
Where ‘neath the rocks the waters slumber —
With last sleep art sleeping thou.
And beauty thine and sufferings
In the urnal grave have disappeared —
But the kiss of meeting is also gone....
But still I wait: thou art my debtor!....
INVOCATION
OH, if true it is that by night
When resting are the living
And from the sky the rays of moon
Along the stones of church-yard glide;
O, if true it is that emptied then
Are the quiet graves,
I — call thy shade, I wait my Lila
Come hither, come hither, my friend, to me!
Appear, O shade of my beloved
As thou before our parting wert:
Pale, cold, like a wintry day
Disfigured by thy struggle of death,
Come like unto a distant star,
Or like a fearful apparition,
‘T is all the same: Come hither, come hither
And I call thee, not in order
To reproach him whose wickedness
My friend hath slain.
Nor to fathom the grave’s mysteries,
Nor because at times I’m worn
With gnawing doubt... but I sadly
Wish to say that still I love thee,
That wholly thine I am: hither come, O hither!
1828.
ELEGY: THE EXTINGUISHED JOY OF CRAZY YEARS
THE extinguished joy of crazy years
On me rests heavy, like dull debauch.
But of by-gone days the grief, like wine
In my soul the older, the stronger ‘t grows.
Dark my path. Toil and pain promised are me
By the Future’s roughened sea.
But not Death, O friends, I wish!
But Life I wish: to think and suffer;
Well I know, for me are joys in store
‘Mid struggles, toils, and sorrows:
Yet’ gain at times shall harmony drink in
And tears I’ll shed over Fancy’s fruit, —
Yet mayhap at my saddened sunset
Love will beam with farewell and smile.
1830.
SORROW
ASK not why with sad reflection
‘Mid gayety I oft am darkened,
Why ever cheerless eyes I raise,
Why sweet life’s dream not dear to me is;
Ask not why with frigid soul
I — joyous love no longer crave,
And longer none I call dear:
Who once has loved, not again can love;
Who bliss has known, ne’er again shall know;
For one brief moment to us ‘t is given:
Of youth, of joy, of tenderness
Is left alone the sadness.
1817.
DESPAIR
DEAR my friend, we are now parted,
My soul’s asleep; I grieve in silence.
Gleams the day behind the mountain blue,
Or rises the night with moon autumnal, —
Still thee I seek, my far off friend,
Thee alone remember I everywhere,
Thee alone in restless sleep I see.
Pauses my mind, unwittingly thee I call;
Listens mine ear, then thy voice I hear.
And thou my lyre, my despair dost share,
Of sick my soul companion thou!
Hollow is and sad the sound of thy string,
Grief’s sound alone hast not forgot....
Faithful lyre, with me grieve thou!
Let thine easy note and careless
Sing of love mine and despair,
And while listening to thy singing
May thoughtfully the maidens sigh!
1816
A WISH
SLOWLY my days are dragging
And in my faded heart each moment doubles
All the sorrows of hopeless love
And heavy craze upsets me.
But I am silent. Heard not is my murmur.
Tears I shed... they are my consolation;
My soul in sorrow steeped
Finds enjoyment bitter in them.
O — flee, life’s dream, thee not regret I!
In darkness vanish, empty vision I
Dear to me is of love my pain,
Let me die, but let me die still loving!
1816.
RESIGNED LOVE
THEE I loved; not yet love perhaps is
In my heart entirely quenched
But trouble let it thee no more;
Thee to grieve with nought I wish.
Silent, hopeless thee I loved,
By fear tormented, now by jealousy;
So sincere my love, so tender,
May God the like thee grant from another.
LOVE AND FREEDOM
CHILD of Nature and simple,
Thus to sing was wont I
Sweet the dream of freedom —
With tenderness my breast it filled.
But thee I see, thee I hear —
And now? Weak become I.
With freedom lost forever
With all my heart I bondage prize.
NOT AT ALL
I THOUGHT forgotten has the heart
Of suffering the easy art;
Not again can be, said I
Not again what once has been.
Of Love the sorrows gone were,
Now calm were my airy dreams....
But behold! again they tremble
Beauty’s mighty power before!...
INSPIRING LOVE
THE moment wondrous I remember
Thou before me didst appear
Like a flashing apparition,
Like a spirit of beauty pure.
‘Mid sorrows of hopeless grief,
‘Mid tumults of noiseful bustle,
Rang long to me thy tender voice,
Came dreams to me of thy lovely features.
Went by the years. The storm’s rebellious rush
The former dreams had scattered
And I forgot thy tender voicè,
I — forgot thy heavenly features.
In the desert, in prison’s darkness,
Quietly my days were dragging;
No reverence, nor inspiration,
Nor tears, nor life, nor love.
But at last awakes my soul:
And again didst thou appear:
Like a flashing apparition,
Like a spirit of beauty pure.
And enraptured beats my heart,
And risen are for it again
Both reverence, and inspiration
And life, and tears, and love.
1825.
THE GRACES
Till now no faith I had in Graces:
Seemed strange to me their triple sight;
Thee I see, and with faith am filled
Adoring now in one the three!
POEMS MISCELLANEOUS
THE BIRDLET
IN exile I sacredly observe
The custom of my fatherland:
I freedom to a birdlet give
On Spring’s holiday serene.
And now I too have consolation:
Wherefore murmur against my God
When at least to one living being
I could of freedom make a gift?
1823.
THE NIGHTINGALE
IN silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the night
Sings above the rose from the east the nightingale;
But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it,
But under its lover’s hymn waveth it and slumbers.
Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold?
Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding?
She neither listens, nor the bard she feels.
Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest? —
Answer none she gives!
1827.
THE FLOWERET
A FLOWERET, withered, odorless
In a book forgot I find;
And already strange reflection
Cometh into my mind.
Bloomed, where? when? In what spring?
And how long ago? And plucked by whom?
Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand?
And wherefore left thus here?
Was it in memory of a tender meeting?
Was it in memory of a fated parting?
Was it in memory of a lonely walk?
In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods?
Lives he still? Lives she still?
And where their nook this very day?
Or are they too withered
Like unto this unknown floweret?
1828.
THE HORSE
Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed,
Why thy neck so low,
Why thy mane unshaken
Why thy bit not gnawed?
Do I then not fondle thee?
Thy grain to eat art thou not free?
Is not thy harness ornamented,
Is not thy rein of silk,
Is not thy shoe of silver,
Thy stirrup not of gold?
The steed in sorrow answer gives:
Hence am I quiet
Because the distant tramp I hear,
The trumpet’s blow and the arrow’s whizz
And hence I neigh, since in the field
No longer feed I shall,
Nor in beauty live and fondling,
Neither shine with harness bright.
For soon the stem enemy
My harness whole shall take
And the shoes of silver
Tear he shall from feet mine light.
Hence it is that grieves my spirit:
That in place of my chaprak
With thy skin shall cover he
My perspiring sides.
1833
TO A BABE
CHILD, I dare not over thee
Pronounce a blessing;
Thou art of consolation a quiet angel
May then happy be thy lot...
THE POET
ERE the poet summoned is
To Apollo’s holy sacrifice
In the world’s empty cares
Engrossed is half-hearted he.
His holy lyre silent is
And cold sleep his soul locks in;
And of the world’s puny children,
Of all puniest perhaps is he.
Yet no sooner the heavenly word
His keen ear hath reached,
Than up trembles the singer’s soul
Like unto an awakened eagle.
The world’s pastimes him now weary
And mortals’ gossip now he shuns
To the feet of popular idol
His lofty head bends not he.
Wild and stem, rushes he,
Of tumult full and sound,
To the shores of desert wave,
Into the widely-whispering wood.
1827
SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!
POET, not popular applause shalt thou prize!
Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise;
The fool’s judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob’s laughter —
Calm stand, and firm be, and — sober!
Thou art king: live alone. On the free road
Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free:
Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening,
Never reward for noble deeds demanding.
In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art;
Severest judge, thine own works canst measure.
Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman?
Content? Then let the mob scold,
And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire.
Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.
THE THREE SPRINGS
IN the world’s desert, sombre and shoreless
Mysteriously three springs have broken thro’:
Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid;
It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs.
The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspiration
In the world’s deserts its exiles waters;
The last spring — the cold spring of forgetfulness,
Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart’s fire.
1827.
THE TASK
THE longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task.
Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly?
My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand,
My wage in hand, to other task a stranger?
Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine,
Gold Aurora’s friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?
1830.
SLEEPLESSNESS
I CANNOT sleep, I have no light;
Darkness ‘bout me, and sleep is slow;
The beat monotonous alone
Near me of the clock is heard.
Of the Fates the womanish babble,
Of sleeping night the trembling,
Of life the mice-like running-about, —
Why disturbing me art thou?
What art thou, O tedious whisper?
The reproaches, or the murmur
Of the day by me misspent?
What from me wilt thou have?
Art thou calling or prophesying?
Thee I wish to understand,
Thy tongue obscure I study now.
1830.
QUESTIONINGS
USELESS gift, accidental gift,
Life, why given art thou me?
Or, why by fate mysterious
To torture art thou doomed?
Who with hostile power me
Out has called from the nought?
Who my soul with passion thrilled,
Who my spirit with doubt has filled?...
Goal before me there is none,
My heart is hollow, vain my mind
And with sadness wearies me
Noisy life’s monotony.
1828.
CONSOLATION
LIFE, — does it disappoint thee?
Grieve not, nor be angry thou!
In days of sorrow gentle be:
Come shall, believe, the joyful day.
In the future lives the heart:
Is the present sad indeed?
‘T is but a moment, all will pass;
Once in the past, it shall be dear.
1825.
FRIENDSHIP
THUS it ever was and ever will be,
Such of old is the world wide:
The learned are many, the sages few,
Acquaintance many, but not a friend!
FAME
BLESSED who to himself has kept
His creation highest of the soul,
And from his fellows as from the graves
Expected not appreciation!
Blessed he who in silence sang
And the crown of fame not wearing,
By mob despised and forgotten,
Forsaken nameless has the world!
Deceiver greater than dreams of hope,
What is fame? The adorer’s whisper?
Or the boor’s persecution?
Or the rapture of the fool?
AT the gates of Eden a tender angel
With drooping head was shining;
A demon gloomy and rebellious
Over hell’s abyss was flying.
The Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of Doubt
The Spirit of Purity espied;
And a tender warmth unwittingly
Now first to know it learned he.
Adieu, he spake, thee I saw:
Not in vain hast thou shone before me;
Not all in the world have I hated,
Not all in the world have I scorned.
1827.
HOME-SICKNESS
MAYHAP not long am destined I
In exile peaceful to remain,
Of dear days of yore to sigh,
And rustic muse in quiet
With spirit calm to follow.
But even far, in foreign land,
In thought forever roam I shall
Around Trimountain mine:
By meadows, river, by its hills,
By garden, linden nigh the house.
Thus when darkens day the clear,
Alone from depths of grave,
Spirit home-longing
Into the native hall flies
To espy the loved ones with tender glance.
1825.
INSANITY
GOD grant I grow not insane:
No, better the stick and beggar’s bag;
No, better toil and hunger bear.
Not that I upon my reason
Such value place; not that I
Would fain not lose it.
If freedom to me they would leave
How I would lasciviously
For the gloomy forest rush!
In hot delirium I would sing
And unconscious would remain
With ravings wondrous and chaotic.
And listen would I to the waves
And gaze I would full of bliss
Into the empty heavens.
And free and strong then would I be
Like a storm the fields updigging,
Forest-trees uprooting.
But here’s the trouble: if crazy once,
A fright thou art like pestilence,
And locked up now shalt thou be.
To a chain thee, fool, they’ll fasten
And through the gate, a circus beast,
Thee to nettle the people come.
And at night not hear shall I
Clear the voice of nightingale
Nor the forest’s hollow sound,
But cries alone of companions mine
And the scolding guards of night
And a whizzing, of chains a ringing.
1833
DEATH-THOUGHTS
WHETHER I roam along the noisy streets
Whether I enter the peopled temple,
Whether I sit by thoughtless youth,
Haunt my thoughts me everywhere.
I — say, Swiftly go the years by:
However great our number now,
Must all descend the eternal vaults, —
Already struck has some one’s hour.
And if I gaze upon the lonely oak
I — think: the patriarch of the woods
Will survive my passing age
As he survived my father’s age.
And if a tender babe I fondle
Already I mutter, Fare thee well!
I — yield my place to thee. For me
‘T is time to decay, to bloom for thee
Every year thus, every day
With death my thought I join
Of coming death the day
I seek among them to divine.
Where will Fortune send me death?
In battle? In wanderings, or on the waves?
Or shall the valley neighboring
Receive my chilled dust?
But tho’ the unfeeling body
Can everywhere alike decay,
Still I, my birthland nigh
Would have my body lie.
Let near the entrance to my grave
Cheerful youth be in play engaged,
And let indifferent creation
With beauty shine there eternally.
1829.
RIGHTS
NOT dear I prize high-sounding rights
By which is turned more head than one;
Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to me
The blessed lot of discussing fates,
Of hindering kings from fighting one another;
And little care I whether free the press is.
All this you see are words, words, words
Other, better rights, dear to me are;
Other, better freedom is my need....
To depend on rulers, or the mob —
Is not all the same it? God be with them!
To give account to none; to thyself alone
To serve and please; for power, for a livery
Nor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend:
Now here, now there to roam in freedom
Nature’s beauties divine admiring,
And before creations of art and inspiration
Melt silently in tender ecstasy —
This is bliss, these are rights!...
THE GYPSIES
OVER the wooded banks,
In the hour of evening quiet,
Under the tents are song and bustle
And the fires are scattered.
Thee I greet, O happy race!
I recognize thy blazes,
I — myself at other times
These tents would have followed.
With the early rays to-morrow
Shall disappear your freedom’s trace,
Go you will — but not with you
Longer go shall the bard of you.
He alas, the changing lodgings,
And the pranks of days of yore
Has forgot for rural comforts
And for the quiet of a home.
THE DELIBASH
CROSS-FIRING behind the hills:
Both camps watch, theirs and ours;
In front of Cossaks on the hill
Dashes ‘long brave Delibash
O Delibash, not to the line come nigh,
Do have mercy on thy life;
Quick ‘t is over with thy frolic bold,
Pierced thou by the spear shalt be
Hey, Cossak, not to battle rush
The Delibash is swift as wind;
Cut he will with crooked sabre
From thy shoulders thy fearless head.
They rush with yell: are hand to hand;
And behold now what each befalls:
Already speared the Delibash is
Already headless the Cossak is!
HYMN TO FORCE
I am eternal!
I throb through the ages;
I am the Master
Of each of Life’s stages.
I quicken the blood
Of the mate-craving lover;
The age-frozen heart
With daisies I cover.
Down through the ether
I hurl constellations;
Up from their earth-bed
I wake the carnations.
I laugh in the flame
As I kindle and fan it;
I crawl in the worm;
I leap in the planet.
Forth from its cradle
I pilot the river;
In lightning and earthquake
I flash and I quiver.
My breath is the wind;
My bosom the ocean;
My form’s undefined;
My essence is motion.
The braggarts of science
Would weigh and divide me;
Their wisdom evading,
I vanish and hide me.
My glances are rays
From stars emanating;
My voice through the spheres
Is sound, undulating.
I am the monarch
Uniting all matter:
The atoms I gather;
The atoms I scatter.
I pulse with the tides —
Now hither, now thither;
I grant the tree sap;
I bid the bud wither.
I always am present,
Yet nothing can bind me;
Like thought evanescent,
They lose me who find me.
THE BLACK SHAWL
I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.
When young I was and full of trust
I passionately loved a young Greek girl.
The charming maid, she fondled me,
But soon I lived the black day to see.
Once as were gathered my jolly guests,
A detested Jew knocked at my door.
Thou art feasting, he whispered, with friends,
But betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid.
Moneys I gave him and curses,
And called my servant, the faithful.
We went; I flew on the wings of my steed,
And tender mercy was silent in me.
Her threshold no sooner I espied,
Dark grew my eyes, and my strength departed.
The distant chamber I enter alone —
An Armenian embraces my faithless maid.
Darkness around me: flashed the dagger;
To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time.
And long I trampled the headless corpse, —
And silent and pale at the maid I stared.
I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,
But perished the girl, and with her my love.
The shawl I took from the head now dead,
And wiped in silence the bleeding steel.
When came the darkness of eve, my serf
Threw their bodies into the billows of the Danube.
Since then I kiss no charming eyes,
Since then I know no cheerful days.
I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.
THE OUTCAST
On a rainy autumn evening
Into desert places went a maid;
And the secret fruit of unhappy love
In her trembling hands she held.
All was still: the woods and the hills
Asleep in the darkness of the night;
And her searching glances
In terror about she cast.
And on this babe, the innocent,
Her glance she paused with a sigh:
“Asleep thou art, my child, my grief,
Thou knowest not my sadness.
Thine eyes will ope, and though with longing,
To my breast shalt no more cling.
No kiss for thee to-morrow
From thine unhappy mother.
Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,
My everlasting shame, my guilt!
Me forget thou shalt for aye,
But thee forget shall not I;
Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers;
Who’ll say: Thou art none of ours!
Thou wilt ask: Where are my parents?
But for thee no kin is found.
Hapless one! with heart filled with sorrow,
Lonely amid thy mates,
Thy spirit sullen to the end
Thou shalt behold the fondling mothers.
A lonely wanderer everywhere,
Cursing thy fate at all times,
Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear …
Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!
Asleep! let me then, O hapless one,
To my bosom press thee once for all;
A law unjust and terrible
Thee and me to sorrow dooms.
While the years have not yet chased
The guiltless joy of thy days,
Sleep, my darling; let no bitter griefs
Mar thy childhood’s quiet life!”
But lo, behind the woods, near by,
The moon brings a hut to light.
Forlorn, pale, trembling
To the doors she came nigh;
She stooped, and gently laid down
The babe on the strange threshold.
In terror away she turned her eyes
And disappeared in the darkness of the night.
THE CLOUD
O last cloud of the scattered storm,
Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;
Alone thou bringest the darkness of shadow;
Alone thou marrest the joy of the day.
Thou but recently hadst encircled the sky,
When sternly the lightning was winding about thee.
Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder,
Thou hast watered with rain the parched earth.
Enough; hie thyself. Thy time hath passed.
The earth is refreshed, and the storm hath fled,
And the breeze, fondling the leaves of the trees,
Forth chases thee from the quieted heavens.
THE ANGEL
At the gates of Eden a tender Angel
With drooping head was shining;
A demon gloomy and rebellious
Over the abyss of hell was flying.
The spirit of Denial, the spirit of Doubt,
The spirit of purity espied;
And unwittingly the warmth of tenderness
He for the first time learned to know.
Adieu, he spake. Thee I saw;
Not in vain hast thou shone before me.
Not all in the world have I hated,
Not all in the world have I scorned.
THE PROPHET
Tormented by the thirst for the Spirit,
I was dragging myself in a sombre desert,
And a six-winged seraph appeared
Unto me on the parting of the roads;
With fingers as light as a dream
He touched mine eyes;
And mine eyes opened wise,
Like unto the eyes of a frightened eagle.
He touched mine ears,
And they filled with din and ringing.
And I heard the trembling of the heavens,
And the flight of the angels’ wings,
And the creeping of the polyps in the sea,
And the growth of the vine in the valley.
And he took hold of my lips,
And out he tore my sinful tongue,
With its empty and false speech.
And the fang of the wise serpent
Between my terrified lips he placed
With bloody hand.
And ope he cut my breast with a sword,
And out he took my trembling heart,
And a coal blazing with flame
He shoved into the open breast.
Like a corpse I lay in the desert;
And the voice of the Lord called unto me:
“Arise! O prophet and guide, and listen, —
Be thou filled with my will,
And going over land and sea,
Burn with the Word the hearts of men!”
THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAY
Translated by William D. Lewis
Published in 1824, this narrative poem was written in the spring of 1821, after Pushkin had visited The Fountain of Tears at the Khan Palace in Bakhchisaray. The poem has since inspired several musical compositions, including Boris Asafyev’s 1934 ballet and Alexander Ilyinsky’s 1911 opera of the same name.
The title page of the poem’s first edition
CONTENTS
THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAI
TARTAR SONG.
‘Pushkin in Bakhchisaray Palace’ by Grigory Chernetsov
THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAI
A Tale of the Tauride
Mute sat Giray, with downcast eye,
As though some spell in sorrow bound him,
His slavish courtiers thronging nigh,
In sad expectance stood around him.
The lips of all had silence sealed,
Whilst, bent on him, each look observant,
Saw grief’s deep trace and passion fervent
Upon his gloomy brow revealed.
But the proud Khan his dark eye raising,
And on the courtiers fiercely gazing,
Gave signal to them to begone!
The chief, unwitnessed and alone,
Now yields him to his bosom’s smart,
Deeper upon his brow severe
Is traced the anguish of his heart;
As full fraught clouds on mirrors clear
Reflected terrible appear!
What fills that haughty soul with pain?
What thoughts such madd’ning tumults cause?
With Russia plots he war again?
Would he to Poland dictate laws?
Say, is the sword of vengeance glancing?
Does bold revolt claim nature’s right?
Do realms oppressed alarm excite?
Or sabres of fierce foes advancing?
Ah no! no more his proud steed prancing
Beneath him guides the Khan to war,--
Such thoughts his mind has banished far.
Has treason scaled the harem’s wall,
Whose height might treason’s self appal,
And slavery’s daughter fled his power,
To yield her to the daring Giaour?
No! pining in his harem sadly,
No wife of his would act so madly;
To wish or think they scarcely dare;
By wretches, cold and heartless, guarded,
Hope from each breast so long discarded;
Treason could never enter there.
Their beauties unto none revealed,
They bloom within the harem’s towers,
As in a hot-house bloom the flowers
Which erst perfumed Arabia’s field.
To them the days in sameness dreary,
And months and years pass slow away,
In solitude, of life grown weary,
Well pleased they see their charms decay.
Each day, alas! the past resembling,
Time loiters through their halls and bowers;
In idleness, and fear, and trembling,
The captives pass their joyless hours.
The youngest seek, indeed, reprieve
Their hearts in striving to deceive
Into oblivion of distress,
By vain amusements, gorgeous dress,
Or by the noise of living streams,
In soft translucency meand’ring,
To lose their thoughts in fancy’s dreams,
Through shady groves together wand’ring.
But the vile eunuch too is there,
In his base duty ever zealous,
Escape is hopeless to the fair
From ear so keen and eye so jealous.
He ruled the harem, order reigned
Eternal there; the trusted treasure
He watched with loyalty unfeigned,
His only law his chieftain’s pleasure,
Which as the Koran he maintained.
His soul love’s gentle flame derides,
And like a statue he abides
Hatred, contempt, reproaches, jests,
Nor prayers relax his temper rigid,
Nor timid sighs from tender breasts,
To all alike the wretch is frigid.
He knows how woman’s sighs can melt,
Freeman and bondman he had felt
Her art in days when he was younger;
Her silent tear, her suppliant look,
Which once his heart confiding shook,
Now move not,--he believes no longer!
When, to relieve the noontide heat,
The captives go their limbs to lave,
And in sequestered, cool retreat
Yield all their beauties to the wave,
No stranger eye their charms may greet,
But their strict guard is ever nigh,
Viewing with unimpassioned eye
These beauteous daughters of delight;
He constant, even in gloom of night,
Through the still harem cautious stealing,
Silent, o’er carpet-covered floors,
And gliding through half-opened doors,
From couch to couch his pathway feeling,
With envious and unwearied care
Watching the unsuspecting fair;
And whilst in sleep unguarded lying,
Their slightest movement, breathing, sighing,
He catches with devouring ear.
O! curst that moment inauspicious
Should some loved name in dreams be sighed,
Or youth her unpermitted wishes
To friendship venture to confide.
What pang is Giray’s bosom tearing?
Extinguished is his loved chubouk,
Whilst or to move or breathe scarce daring,
The eunuch watches every look;
Quick as the chief, approaching near him,
Beckons, the door is open thrown,
And Giray wanders through his harem
Where joy to him no more is known.
Near to a fountain’s lucid waters
Captivity’s unhappy daughters
The Khan await, in fair array,
Around on silken carpets crowded,
Viewing, beneath a heaven unclouded,
With childish joy the fishes play
And o’er the marble cleave their way,
Whose golden scales are brightly glancing,
And on the mimic billows dancing.
Now female slaves in rich attire
Serve sherbet to the beauteous fair,
Whilst plaintive strains from viewless choir
Float sudden on the ambient air.
TARTAR SONG.
I.
Heaven visits man with days of sadness,
Embitters oft his nights with tears;
Blest is the Fakir who with gladness
Views Mecca in declining years.
II.
Blest he who sees pale Death await him
On Danube’s ever glorious shore;
The girls of Paradise shall greet him,
And sorrows ne’er afflict him more.
III.
But he more blest, O beauteous Zarem!
Who quits the world and all its woes,
To clasp thy charms within the harem,
Thou lovelier than the unplucked rose!
They sing, but-where, alas! is Zarem,
Love’s star, the glory of the harem?
Pallid and sad no praise she hears,
Deaf to all sounds of joy her ears,
Downcast with grief, her youthful form
Yields like the palm tree to the storm,
Fair Zarem’s dreams of bliss are o’er,
Her loved Giray loves her no more!
He leaves thee! yet whose charms divine
Can equal, fair Grusinian! thine?
Shading thy brow, thy raven hair
Its lily fairness makes more fair;
Thine eyes of love appear more bright
Than noonday’s beam, more dark than night;
Whose voice like thine can breathe of blisses,
Filling the heart with soft desire?
Like thine, ah! whose inflaming kisses
Can kindle passion’s wildest fire?
Who that has felt thy twining arms
Could quit them for another’s charms?
Yet cold, and passionless, and cruel,
Giray can thy vast love despise,
Passing the lonesome night in sighs
Heaved for another; fiercer fuel
Burns in his heart since the fair Pole
Is placed within the chief’s control.
The young Maria recent war
Had borne in conquest from afar;
Not long her love-enkindling eyes
Had gazed upon these foreign skies;
Her aged father’s boast and pride,
She bloomed in beauty by his side;
Each wish was granted ere expressed.
She to his heart the object dearest,
His sole desire to see her blessed;
As when the skies from clouds are clearest,
Still from her youthful heart to chase
Her childish sorrows his endeavour,
Hoping in after life that never
Her woman’s duties might efface
Remembrance of her earlier hours,
But oft that fancy would retrace
Life’s blissful spring-time decked in flowers.
Her form a thousand charms unfolded,
Her face by beauty’s self was moulded,
Her dark blue eyes were full of fire,--
All nature’s stores on her were lavished;
The magic harp with soft desire,
When touched by her, the senses ravished.
Warriors and knights had sought in vain
Maria’s virgin heart to move,
And many a youth in secret pain
Pined for her in despairing love.
But love she knew not, in her breast
Tranquil it had not yet intruded,
Her days in mirth, her nights in rest,
In her paternal halls secluded,
Passed heedless, peace her bosom’s guest.
That time is past! The Tartar’s force
Rushed like a torrent o’er her nation,--
Rages less fierce the conflagration
Devouring harvests in its course,--
Poland it swept with devastation,
Involving all in equal fate,
The villages, once mirthful, vanished,
From their red ruins joy was banished,
The gorgeous palace desolate!
Maria is the victor’s prize;--
Within the palace chapel laid,
Slumb’ring among th’illustrious dead,
In recent tomb her father lies;
His ancestors repose around,
Long freed from life and its alarms;
With coronets and princely arms
Bedecked their monuments abound!
A base successor now holds sway,--
Maria’s natal halls his hand
Tyrannic rules, and strikes dismay
And wo throughout the ravaged land.
Alas! the Princess sorrow’s chalice
Is fated to the dregs to drain,
Immured in Bakchesaria’s palace
She sighs for liberty in vain;
The Khan observes the maiden’s pain,
His heart is at her grief afflicted,
His bosom strange emotions fill,
And least of all Maria’s will
Is by the harem’s laws restricted.
The hateful guard, of all the dread,
Learns silent to respect and fear her,
His eye ne’er violates her bed,
Nor day nor night he ventures near her;
To her he dares not speak rebuke,
Nor on her cast suspecting look.
Her bath she sought by none attended,
Except her chosen female slave,
The Khan to her such freedom gave;
But rarely he himself offended
By visits, the desponding fair,
Remotely lodged, none else intruded;
It seemed as though some jewel rare,
Something unearthly were secluded,
And careful kept untroubled there.
Within her chamber thus secure,
By virtue guarded, chaste and pure,
The lamp of faith, incessant burning,
The VIRGIN’S image blest illumed,
The comfort of the spirit mourning
And trust of those to sorrow doomed.
The holy symbol’s face reflected
The rays of hope in splendour bright,
And the rapt soul by faith directed
To regions of eternal light.
Maria, near the VIRGIN kneeling,
In silence gave her anguish way,
Unnoticed by the crowd unfeeling,
And whilst the rest, or sad or gay,
Wasted in idleness the day,
The sacred image still concealing,
Before it pouring forth her prayer,
She watched with ever jealous care;
Even as our hearts to error given,
Yet lighted by a spark from heaven,
Howe’er from virtue’s paths we swerve,
One holy feeling still preserve.
Now night invests with black apparel
Luxurious Tauride’s verdant fields,
Whilst her sweet notes from groves of laurel
The plaintive Philomela yields.
But soon night’s glorious queen, advancing
Through cloudless skies to the stars’ song,
Scatters the hills and dales along,
The lustre of her rays entrancing.
In Bakchesaria’s streets roamed free
The Tartars’ wives in garb befitting,
They like unprisoned shades were flitting
From house to house their friends to see,
And while the evening hours away
In harmless sports or converse gay.
The inmates of the harem slept;--
Still was the palace, night impending
O’er all her silent empire kept;
The eunuch guard, no more offending
The fair ones by his presence, now
Slumbered, but fear his soul attending
Troubled his rest and knit his brow;
Suspicion kept his fancy waking,
And on his mind incessant preyed,
The air the slightest murmur breaking
Assailed his ear with sounds of dread.
Now, by some noise deceitful cheated,
Starts from his sleep the timid slave,
Listens to hear the noise repeated,
But all is silent as the grave,
Save where the fountains softly sounding
Break from their marble prisons free,
Or night’s sweet birds the scene surrounding
Pour forth their notes of melody:
Long does he hearken to the strain,
Then sinks fatigued in sleep again.
Luxurious East! how soft thy nights,
What magic through the soul they pour!
How fruitful they of fond delights
To those who Mahomet adore!
What splendour in each house is found,
Each garden seems enchanted ground;
Within the harem’s precincts quiet
Beneath fair Luna’s placid ray,
When angry feelings cease to riot
There love inspires with softer sway!
The women sleep;--but one is there
Who sleeps not; goaded by despair
Her couch she quits with dread intent,
On awful errand is she bent;
Breathless she through the door swift flying
Passes unseen; her timid feet
Scarce touch the floor, she glides so fleet.
In doubtful slumber restless lying
The eunuch thwarts the fair one’s path,
Ah! who can speak his bosom’s wrath?
False is the quiet sleep would throw
Around that gray and care-worn brow;
She like a spirit vanished by
Viewless, unheard as her own sigh!
The door she reaches, trembling opes,
Enters, and looks around with awe,
What sorrows, anguish, terrors, hopes,
Rushed through her heart at what she saw!
The image of the sacred maid,
The Christian’s matron, reigning there,
And cross attracted first the fair,
By the dim lamp-light scarce displayed!
Oh! Grusinka, of earlier days
The vision burst upon thy soul,
The tongue long silent uttered praise,
The heart throbs high, but sin’s control
Cannot escape, ‘tis passion, passion sways!
The Princess in a maid’s repose
Slumbered, her cheek, tinged like the rose,
By feverish thought, in beauty blooms,
And the fresh tear that stains her face
A smile of tenderness illumes.
Thus cheers the moon fair Flora’s race,
When by the rain opprest they lie
The charm and grief of every eye!
It seemed as though an angel slept
From heaven descended, who, distressed,
Vented the feelings of his breast,
And for the harem’s inmates wept!
Alas! poor Zarem, wretched fair,
By anguish urged to mere despair,
On bended knee, in tone subdued
And melting strain, for pity sued.
“Oh! spurn not such a suppliant’s prayer!”
Her tones so sad, her sighs so deep,
Startled the Princess in her sleep;
Wond’ring, she views with dread before her
The stranger beauty, frighted hears
For mercy her soft voice implore her,
Raises her up with trembling hand,
And makes of her the quick demand,
“Who speaks? in night’s still hour alone,
Wherefore art here?” “A wretched one,
To thee I come,” the fair replied,
“A suitor not to be denied;
Hope, hope alone my soul sustains;
Long have I happiness enjoyed,
And lived from sorrow free and care,
But now, alas! a prey to pains
And terrors, Princess hear my prayer,
Oh! listen, or I am destroyed!
Not here beheld I first the light,
Far hence my native land, but yet
Alas! I never can forget
Objects once precious to my sight;
Well I remember towering mountains,
Snow-ridged, replete with boiling fountains,
Woods pervious scarce to wolf or deer,
Nor faith, nor manners such as here;
But, by what cruel fate o’ercome,
How I was snatched, or when, from home
I know not,--well the heaving ocean
Do I remember, and its roar,
But, ah! my heart such wild commotion
As shakes it now ne’er felt before.
I in the harem’s quiet bloomed,
Tranquil myself, waiting, alas!
With willing heart what love had doomed;
Its secret wishes came to pass:
Giray his peaceful harem sought,
For feats of war no longer burned,
Nor, pleased, upon its horrors thought,
To these fair scenes again returned.
“Before the Khan with bosoms beating
We stood, timid my eyes I raised,
When suddenly our glances meeting,
I drank in rapture as I gazed;
He called me to him,--from that hour
We lived in bliss beyond the power
Of evil thought or wicked word,
The tongue of calumny unheard,
Suspicion, doubt, or jealous fear,
Of weariness alike unknown,
Princess, thou comest a captive here,
And all my joys are overthrown,
Giray with sinful passion burns,
His soul possessed of thee alone,
My tears and sighs the traitor spurns;
No more his former thoughts, nor feeling
For me now cherishes Giray,
Scarce his disgust, alas! concealing,
He from my presence hastes away.
Princess, I know the fault not thine
That Giray loves thee, oh! then hear
A suppliant wretch, nor spurn her prayer!
Throughout the harem none but thou
Could rival beauties such as mine
Nor make him violate his vow;
Yet, Princess! in thy bosom cold
The heart to mine left thus forlorn,
The love I feel cannot be told,
For passion, Princess, was I born.
Yield me Giray then; with these tresses
Oft have his wandering fingers played,
My lips still glow with his caresses,
Snatched as he sighed, and swore, and prayed,
Oaths broken now so often plighted!
Hearts mingled once now disunited!
His treason I cannot survive;
Thou seest I weep, I bend my knee,
Ah! if to pity thou’rt alive,
My former love restore to me.
Reply not! thee I do not blame,
Thy beauties have bewitched Giray,
Blinded his heart to love and fame,
Then yield him up to me, I pray,
Or by contempt, repulse, or grief,
Turn from thy love th’ungenerous chief!
Swear by thy faith, for what though mine
Conform now to the Koran’s laws,
Acknowledged here within the harem,
Princess, my mother’s faith was thine,
By that faith swear to give to Zarem
Giray unaltered, as he was!
But listen! the sad prey to scorn
If I must live, Princess, have care,
A dagger still doth Zarem wear,--
I near the Caucasus was born!”
She spake, then sudden disappeared,
And left the Princess in dismay,
Who scarce knew what or why she feared;
Such words of passion till that day
She ne’er had heard. Alas! was she
To be the ruthless chieftain’s prey?
Vain was all hope his grasp to flee.
Oh! God, that in some dungeon’s gloom
Remote, forgotten, she had lain,
Or that it were her blessed doom
To ‘scape dishonour, life, and pain!
How would Maria with delight
This world of wretchedness resign;
Vanished of youth her visions bright,
Abandoned she to fates malign!
Sinless she to the world was given,
And so remains, thus pure and fair,
Her soul is called again to heaven,
And angel joys await it there!
Days passed away; Maria slept
Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now,--
From earth the orphan maid was swept.
But who knew when, or where, or how?
If prey to grief or pain she fell,
If slain or heaven-struck, who can tell?
She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves,
And his neglected harem leaves,
Flies from its tranquil precincts far,
And with his Tartars takes the field,
Fierce rushes mid the din of war,
And brave the foe that does not yield,
For mad despair hath nerved his arm,
Though in his heart is grief concealed,
With passion’s hopeless transports warm.
His blade he swings aloft in air
And wildly brandishes, then low
It falls, whilst he with pallid stare
Gazes, and tears in torrents flow.
His harem by the chief deserted,
In foreign lands he warring roved,
Long nor in wish nor thought reverted
To scene once cherished and beloved.
His women to the eunuch’s rage
Abandoned, pined and sank in age;
The fair Grusinian now no more
Yielded her soul to passion’s power,
Her fate was with Maria’s blended,
On the same night their sorrows ended;
Seized by mute guards the hapless fair
Into a deep abyss they threw,--
If vast her crime, through love’s despair,
Her punishment was dreadful too!
At length th’exhausted Khan returned,
Enough of waste his sword had dealt,
The Russian cot no longer burned,
Nor Caucasus his fury felt.
In token of Maria’s loss
A marble fountain he upreared
In spot recluse;--the Christian’s cross
Upon the monument appeared,
(Surmounting it a crescent bright,
Emblem of ignorance and night!)
Th’inscription mid the silent waste
Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced,
Still do the gurgling waters pour
Their streams dispensing sadness round,
As mothers weep for sons no more,
In never-ending sorrows drowned.
In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,)
Roam where this monument appears,
And pitying poor Maria’s fate
Entitle it the FOUNT OF TEARS!
My native land abandoned long,
I sought this realm of love and song.
Through Bakchesaria’s palace wandered,
Upon its vanished greatness pondered;
All silent now those spacious halls,
And courts deserted, once so gay
With feasters thronged within their walls,
Carousing after battle fray.
Even now each desolated room
And ruined garden luxury breathes,
The fountains play, the roses bloom,
The vine unnoticed twines its wreaths,
Gold glistens, shrubs exhale perfume.
The shattered casements still are there
Within which once, in days gone by,
Their beads of amber chose the fair,
And heaved the unregarded sigh;
The cemetery there I found,
Of conquering khans the last abode,
Columns with marble turbans crowned
Their resting-place the traveller showed,
And seemed to speak fate’s stern decree,
“As they are now such all shall be!”
Where now those chiefs? the harem where?
Alas! how sad scene once so fair!
Now breathless silence chains the air!
But not of this my mind was full,
The roses’ breath, the fountains flowing,
The sun’s last beam its radiance throwing
Around, all served my heart to lull
Into forgetfulness, when lo!
A maiden’s shade, fairer than snow,
Across the court swift winged its flight;--
Whose shade, oh friends! then struck my sight?
Whose beauteous image hovering near
Filled me with wonder and with fear?
Maria’s form beheld I then?
Or was it the unhappy Zarem,
Who jealous thither came again
To roam through the deserted harem?
That tender look I cannot flee,
Those charms still earthly still I see!
He who the muse and peace adores,
Forgetting glory, love, and gold,
Again thy ever flowery shores
Soon, Salgir! joyful shall behold;
The bard shall wind thy rocky ways
Filled with fond sympathies, shall view
Tauride’s bright skies and waves of blue
With greedy and enraptured gaze.
Enchanting region! full of life
Thy hills, thy woods, thy leaping streams,
Ambered and rubied vines, all rife
With pleasure, spot of fairy dreams!
Valleys of verdure, fruits, and flowers,
Cool waterfalls and fragrant bowers!
All serve the traveller’s heart to fill
With joy as he in hour of morn
By his accustomed steed is borne
In safety o’er dell, rock, and hill,
Whilst the rich herbage, bent with dews,
Sparkles and rustles on the ground,
As he his venturous path pursues
Where AYOUDAHGA’S crags surround!
THE GIPSIES
Translated by Charles Edward Turner
This narrative poem was originally written in 1824 and published in 1827. Composed during Pushkin’s exile in the south of the Russian Empire, The Gipsies is one of his most popular poems, which has been praised for its originality and handling of psychological and moral issues, serving to inspire many operas and ballets, as well as other contemporary poets.
The Gipsies opens in Bessarabia, modern day Romania, with a colourful and lively description of a gipsy camp’s activities. Written almost entirely in iambic tetrameter, the narrative poem introduces an old man waiting for his daughter Zemfira to return home, while his dinner grows cold. When she arrives, she announces that she has brought Aleko with her, an exile who has fled the city, because the law is pursuing him.
Bessarabia, at the time of the poem’s setting
THE GIPSIES
I.
In noisy crowds the gipsies bold
Their way through Bessarabia tramp;
To-day they pitch their camp and set
Their tattered tents by river-side.
As free as bird, they choose their haunt,
And peaceful sleep ‘neath open sky.
From midst the wheels of waggon-vans,
Half-covered with thick canvas roofs,
Curls high the flame, and round the fire
Within their tent the family group
Prepare with care the evening meal.
In open field the horses graze;
Beyond the tent the tamed bear lies;
And all is gay along the steppe
With busy cares of household life,
With women’s songs, and children’s laugh,
And measured beat of blacksmith’s stroke,
As they prepare for morrow’s march.
And now, o’er all the nomad camp
Unbroken silence calmly reigns,
And naught is heard on tranquil steppe,
Save bark of hound or neighing steed.
Throughout the camp the fires are quenched,
. And all is peace. The moon, sole queen
In heaven’s expanse, sheds forth her rays,
And bathes the sleeping camp in light.
All sleep, save one old man who sits
Before the half-extinguished fire
And warms himself with its last heat.
And oft he scans the fields remote,
Enwrapt in evening’s soft, white mist.
His daughter young and fair is wont
In all to have her way, and now
Has gone to stroll the lonely fields.
She will come back; but it is late,
And o’er the moon the clouds or night
Already gather thick and fast.
But no Zemphire returns: meanwhile,
The old man’s modest meal grows cold.
At last she comes, and close behind
Follows along her path a youth,
A stranger to the gipsy sire.
“See, father mine”, the maiden said,
“I bring a guest; beyond the mounds
I found him lost on the wild steppe,
And refuge in our camp I offered.
He lies beneath the ban of law,
But Ï have sworn to be his friend;
Aleko is his name, and he,
Where’er I go, will follow me.”
OLD MAN.
I welcome thee. Remain the night
Beneath the shelter of our tent;
Or, if thou wilt, stay longer here,
As thou thinkst fit, for I consent
Our board and roof with thee to share.
Be one of us, and learn our fate
To bear, the fate of vagrants poor,
But free, and with the early dawn
Shalt find a place with us in van,
And prove what trade art skilled to ply:
The iron forge.... or sing a song,
And show the villagers our bear.
ALEKO.
I will remain.
ZEMPHIRE.
He shall be mine:
And who shall chase him from my side?
But it grows late; the crescent moon
Has set; the fields drink in the mist;
And heavy sleep weighs down mine eyes.
II.
Tis dawn. Around the sleepy tent
With watchful steps the old man strolls.
“Arise, Zemphire, the sun is up;
Awake, my.
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