Works of Alexander Pushkin Page 7
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 gua
rds 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
&
nbsp; 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. guest, ‘tis time to march:
Quick, children, quit the couch of ease!
With busy haste they all start up;
The tents are raised; the waggon-vans
Stand ready for the long day’s inarch.
At given sign the swarming crowds
Begin to make their slow descent
Through steep defiles precipitous.
In hand tilt-carts the asses draw
Their close-packed loads of children gay;
And mingling groups of old and young
In orderly disorder move.
Loud cries, and shouts, and gipsy songs;
The bear’s low growl, and frequent creak
Of his impatient, irksome chain;
The particoloured, tattered robes;
Shoeless men half-clad and children;
The angry bark and howl of dogs;
The noisy bagpipe’s piercing notes;
The grating harsh of turning wheels.
A picture wild and dissonant,
But all alert and full of soul;
Unlike our world’s benumbing ease,
Unlike the barren life of town,
A life as dull as chant of slaves.
III.
With weary glance the youth looks back
Upon the now unpeopled plain;
Nor can he yet the secret cause
Of grief that fills his heart discern.
Beside him lies the black-eyed maid;
Lord of himself, lives as he will;
And o’er him shines the glowing sun
In his rounded midday beauty.
What, then, torments his youthful soul?
What care disturbs his restless heart?
The bird of air is free and knows
Nor anxious toil nor daily care;
Nor fretsome seeks to weave a nest,
That shall defy the ages’ wear;
But on the branch the long night sleeps,
Till sun shall don his morning robe,
And then, responsive to God’s call,
With quickened thrill sings out his song.
When spring, fair nature’s darling child,
Gives place to sultry summer’s heat,
And later autumn brings its due,