SONG.
From the Russian of Pushkin.
Hoary man, hateful man!
Gash my frame, burn my frame;
Bold I am, scoff I can
At the sword, at the flame.
Thee as hell I abhor,
And despise heartily;
I another do adore,
And for love of him die.
Gash my frame, burn my frame!—
Nothing I will tell thee;
Man of age, man of rage,
Him thou’lt ne’er know from me.
Fresh as May and as gay,
Warm as Summer days he;
O how sweet, young and neat,
O how well he loves me.
O how him I carest
In the night still and fine;
O how then we did jest
At that grey head of thine.
THE COSSACK.
An ancient Ballad.
From the Malo-Russian.
O’er the field the snow is flying,
There a wounded Cossack’s lying;
On a bush his head he’s leaning,
And his eyes with grass is screening,
Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,
And with cloth the make of China;
Croaks the raven hoarsely o’er him,
Neighs his courser sad before him:
“Either, master, give me pay,
Or dismiss me on my way.”
“Break thy bridle, O my courser,
Down the path amain be speeding,
Through the verdant forest leading;
Drink of two lakes on thy way,
Eat of mowings two the hay;
Rush the castle-portal under,
With thy hoof against it thunder,
Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,
Whom thy lord for mother owneth;
I will tell thee, my brave prancer,
When she speaks thee what to answer.
“O thou steed, than lightning faster,
Tell me where’s thy youthful master!
Him in fight thou hast forsaken,
Or has cast him down, I reckon.”
“Nor in fight I’ve him forsaken,
Nor have cast him down, I reckon,
The lone field with blood bedewing,
There the damsel Death he’s wooing.”
THE THREE SONS OF BUDRYS.
A Lithuanian Ballad.
From the Polish of Mickiewicz.
With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin’s were once,
To the court-yard old Budrys advances;
“Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,
And sharpen your swords and your lances.
For in Wilna I’ve vow’d, that three trumpeters loud
I’d despatch unto lands of like number,
To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,
And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.
Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;
May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!
Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:
Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.
Unto Olgierd’s Russ plain one of ye must amain,
To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;
There are sables for plunder, veils work’d to a wonder,
And of coin have the merchants a power.
Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,
To whose crosletted doys [{32}] bitter gruel!
There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,
And priests deck’d in diamond and jewel.
Unto Pole Skirgiel’s part let the third hero start,
There the dwellings but poorly are furnish’d;
So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,
Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish’d.
But bring home, above all, Laskian [{33}] girls to our hall,
More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;
The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,
Their eyes are like stars of the ether.
Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,
A wife from their region I bore me;
Death tore us asunder, yet ne’er I look yonder,
But memory straight brings her before me.”
Now advis’d them he hath, so he blesseth their path,
And away they high-spirited rattle;
Grim winter comes chiding—of them there’s no tiding;
Says Budrys: they’ve fallen in battle.
With an avalanche’s might to the gate spurs a knight,
And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:
“Hast there Russian money—the roubles so bonny?”
“No, no! I’ve a Laskian maiden.”
Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm’d knight,
And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:
“From the German, brave fellow, bring’st amber so yellow?”
“No, no! here’s a Laskian maiden.”
Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now,
Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle;
As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooeth
To bid guests for the brave triple bridal.
THE BANNING OF THE PEST.
From the Finnish.
The plague is solemnly conjured to leave the country, and the speaker offers to find a suitable conveyance, namely a demon-horse summoned from one of those mountains in Norway supposed to be inhabited by evil spirits and goblins.
Hie away, thou horrid monster!
Hie away, our country’s ruin!
Hie thee from our plains and valleys!
I will find thee fit conveyance,
Find a horse for thee to ride on,
One whose feet nor slip nor stumble
On the ice or on the mountain;
Get thee gone, I do conjure thee;
Take thee from the hill a courser,
From the Goblin’s Burg a stallion
For thy dreary homeward journey;
If thou ask me for conveyance,
If thou ask me for a courser,
I will raise thee one full quickly,
On whose back though mayest gallop
To thy home accurst in Norway,
To the flint-hard hill in Norway.
When the Goblin’s Burg thou reachest
Burst with might its breast asunder;
Plunge thee past its sand-born witches
Down into the gulf eternal;
Never be thou seen or heard of
From that dismal gulf eternal.
Get thee gone, I do conjure thee,
Into Lapland’s thickest forest,
To the North’s extremest region;
Get thee gone, I do command thee,
To the North’s most dusky region.
WOINOMOINEN.
From the Finnish.
Woinomoinen was, according to the Mythology of the ancient Finns, the second Godhead, being only inferior to Jumala. He was master of the musical art, and when he played upon his instrument produced much the same effect as the Grecian Orpheus, enticing fishes from the stream and the wild animals from the forest. The lines here translated are a fragment of a poem which describes a musical contest between Woinomoinen and the Giant Joukkawainen, in which the latter was signally defeated.
Then the ancient Woinomoinen,
On the bench himself he seated,
Took the harp betwixt his fingers,
On his knee about he turn’d it,
In his hand he fitly plac’d it.
Play’d the ancient Woinomoinen,
Universal joy awaking;
Like a concert was his playing;
There was nothing in the forest
On four nimble feet that runneth,
On four lengthy legs that stalketh,
But repair’d to hear the music,
When the ancient Woinomoinen,
When the Father joy awaken’d.
E’en at Woinomoinen’s harping
’Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.
There was nothing in the forest
On two whirring pinions flying,
But with whirl-wind speed did hasten;
There was nothing in the ocean,
With six fins about that roweth,
Or with eight to move delighteth,
But repair’d to hear the music.
E’en the briny water’s mother [{38}]
’Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,
On a little sand-hill rais’d her,
On her side with toil up-crawling.
E’en from Woinomoinen’s eye-balls
Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,
Bigger than the whortle-berry,
Heavier than the eggs of plovers,
Down his broad and mighty bosom,
Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,
From his knee his feet bedewing;
And I’ve heard, his tears they trickled
Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,
Through his jackets eight of wadmal.