Yúri Aleksándrovich Neledínski-Melétski. (1752-1829.)
After finishing his education in the University of Strassburg, Neledínski occupied various posts in the army and with legations. In 1800 he was made a Senator. He distinguished himself in literature by his simple, deep-felt songs, two of which, given below, have become enormously popular. His other poems and translations from French authors are now forgotten.
Sir John Bowring has translated his “Under the oak-tree, near the rill,” “To the streamlet I’ll repair,” and “He whom misery, dark and dreary”; the latter is the same as Lewis’s “He whose soul from sorrow dreary.”
SONG
To the streamlet I’ll repair,
Look upon its flight and say:
“Bear, O fleeting streamlet, bear
All my griefs with thine away!”
Ah, I breathe the wish in vain!
In this silent solitude
Counted is each throb of pain:—
Rest is melancholy’s food.
Waves with waves unceasing blend,
Hurrying to their destiny:
E’en so thoughts with thoughts, and tend
All alike to misery.
And what grief so dark, so deep
As the grief interred within,
By the friend, for whom I weep,
All unnoticed, all unseen?
Yet, could I subdue my pain,
Soothe affection’s rankling smart,
Ne’er would I resume again
The lost empire of my heart.
Thou, my love, art sovereign there!
There thou hast a living shrine:
Let my portion be despair,
If the light of bliss be thine.
Loved by thee, oh, might I live,
’Neath the darkest, stormiest sky:
’Twere a blest alternative!
Grief is joy, if thou be nigh.
Every wish and every pray’r
Is a tribute paid to thee:
Every heart-beat—there, oh there,
Thou hast mightiest sovereignty.
To thee, nameless one! to thee
Still my thoughts, my passions turn;
’Tis through thee alone I see,
Think, and feel, and breathe, and burn.
If the woe in which I live
Ever reach thy generous ear,
Pity not, but oh, forgive
Thy devoted worshipper!
In some hour of careless bliss
Deign my bosom’s fire to prove;
Prove it with an icy kiss,—
Thou shalt know how much I love!
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.
STANZAS
He whose soul from sorrow dreary,
Weak and wretched, naught can save,
Who in sadness, sick and weary,
Hopes no refuge but the grave;
On his visage Pleasure beaming
Ne’er shall shed her placid ray,
Till kind fate, from woe redeeming,
Leads him to his latest day.
Thou this life preservest ever,
My distress and my delight!
And, though soul and body sever,
Still I’ll live a spirit bright;
In my breast the heart that’s kindled
Death’s dread strength can ne’er destroy,
Sure the soul with thine that’s mingled
Must immortal life enjoy.
That inspired by breath from heaven
Need not shrink a mortal doom,
To thee shall my vows be given
In this world and that to come.
My fond shade shall constant trace thee,
And attend in friendly guise,
Still surround thee, still embrace thee,
Catch thy thoughts, thy looks, thy sighs.
To divine its secret pondering,
Close to clasp thy soul ’t will brave,
And if chance shall find thee wandering
Heedless near my silent grave,
E’en my ashes then shall tremble,
Thy approach relume their fire,
And that stone in dust shall crumble,
Covering what can ne’er expire!
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
FOOTNOTES:
[165] The last verses Derzhávin wrote.