Mikhaíl Nikítich Muravév. (1757-1807.)
Muravév was an alumnus of the Moscow University, and early distinguished himself for his intimate knowledge of the ancient and many modern languages. In 1785 he became the instructor of Alexander and Constantine, and when the first ascended the throne, Muravév was made Senator, and later Curator of the Moscow University. He not only did much for the cause of education in Russia, but himself educated a new generation of writers, among them Bátyushkov; through his efforts Karamzín was made historiographer, and the Archives were opened to him. In his prose and poetry, Muravév was himself a follower of the pseudo-classic school, with an addition of sentimentalism, through Karamzín’s influence. In his classicism, however, he differs from all his contemporaries in that he drew directly from the ancient sources, with which he was intimately acquainted.
Sir John Bowring translated Muravév’s To the Goddess of the Neva, Boleslav, and “She bent her head, and her tears that fell.”
TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVÁ
Glide, majestic Neva! Glide thee,
Decked with bright and peaceful smiles;
Palaces are raised beside thee,
’Midst the shadows of the isles.
Stormy Russian seas thou bindest
With the ocean—by the grave
Of our glorious Tsar thou windest,
Which thy graceful waters lave.
And the middle-ocean’s surges
All thy smiling naiads court;
While thy stream to Paros urges,
And to Lemnos’ classic port.
Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded,
See the brightest memories fade;
Glassy mirrors—how degraded!
Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade.
While thy happier face is bearing
Ever-smiling images,
On thy busy banks appearing
Crowds in gaiety and peace.
Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes,
Spread their riches o’er thy breast,
While thy well-known banner rises,
Rises proudly o’er the rest.
In thy baths what beauties bathe them,
Goddesses of love and light;
There Erota loves to swathe them
In the brightest robes of night.
Cool thy smiling banks at even,
Cool thy grottoes and thy cells,
Where, by gentle breezes driven,
Oft the dancing billow swells.
Then thou gatherest vapours round thee,
Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress;
Love and mirth have now unbound thee—
Yield thee to thy waywardness.
Thou dost bear the dying over,
Weary of this earthly dream;
And with awful mists dost cover
All the bosom of the stream.
With thy car thou troublest never
The calm silence of the deep;
Sirens dance around thee ever,
Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep.
Peaceful goddess! Oft the singer
Sees thee in his ecstasy,
On the rock he loves to linger,
Sleepless,—then he meets with thee.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.