FOOTNOTES:

[2] Lermontof was banished from St. Petersburg to the Caucasus.

Praying now earnestly, Mother of God, come I,

Bending before thy shrine radiant in brilliancy,

Not for salvation, or battle-eve benison,

Not with thanksgiving, or even repentancy.

Not for my own sad soul lost in the wilderness,

Soul of a pilgrim here wandering homelessly;

But for a maiden pure, whom I would trust to thee,

Fervid Protectress from cold inhumanity!

Circle with Fortune this maiden deserving it;

Grant her considerate friends on life’s pilgrimage,

Youth of bright buoyancy, age of reposefulness;

Grant to her sinless soul Hope’s happy peacefulness.

Then—when the farewell hour finally draweth nigh,—

Whether in morn’s hum, or silence of eventide,—

Send forth the best of thine angels to take to thy

Bosom of mercy her peerlessly perfect soul!

How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s pain

In moments of sorrow of soul!

Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?

And o’er us the best years roll.

To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;

And for ever Love cannot remain.

Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace,

And all gladness and sorrow are vain.

The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweet

Will vanish at reason’s behest;

And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete—

Is a stupid and frivolous jest.