Read Works of Alexander Pushkin Online
Authors: Alexander Pushkin
Works of Alexander Pushkin (2 page)
The Epiphany Cathedral, Moscow, where Pushkin was christened
Pushkin, c.1801
CONTENTS
Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow
THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT
GOD GRANT, MY REASON NE’ER BETRAY ME
Poems Translated by Ivan Panin
ELEGY: HAPPY WHO TO HIMSELF CONFESS
ELEGY: THE EXTINGUISHED JOY OF CRAZY YEARS
SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!
Pushkin, aged 20
TO —— (KERN)
This poem was written in July 1825 and dedicated to Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879). It has the distinction of being labelled the most famous poem in the Russian language. This anonymous translation is followed by the original Russian text and then a comparison of the two texts.
I still recall the marvellous moment:
When you appeared before my gaze
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Like soul of the purest grace.
In torturing fruitless melancholy,
In vanity and loud chaos
I’ve always heard your gentle voice
And glimpsed your features in my dreams.
As years passed and winds scattered
My long-past hopes, and in those days,
I lacked your voice’s divine spell
And the bless’d features of your face.
Held in darkness and separation,
My days dragged in strife.
Lacking faith and inspiration,
Lacking tears and love and life.
But the time arrives; my soul awakens,
And again you appear before me
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Like the soul of purest grace.
Again my heart beats in rapture,
Again everything awakens:
My long-past faith and inspiration,
And the tears and life and love.
1825
Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879), a socialite, memoirist and the poet’s married lover
К
***
Я помню чудное мгновенье:
Передо мной явилась ты,
Как мимолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.
В томленьх грусти безнадежной
В тревогах шумной суеты
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
И снились милые черты.
Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной
Рассеял прежние мечты,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
Твой небесные черты.
В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Тянулись тихо дни мои
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.
Душе настало пробужденье:
И вот опять явилась ты,
Как милолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.
И сердце бьется в упоенье,
И для него воскресли вновь
И божество, и вдохновенье,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.
TO
—— (KERN) COMPARISON
Я помню чудное мгновенье:
I still recall the marvellous moment:
Передо мной явилась ты,
When you appeared before my gaze
Как мимолетное виденье,
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Как гений чистой красоты.
Like soul of the purest grace.
В томленьх грусти безнадежной
In torturing fruitless melancholy,
В тревогах шумной суеты
In vanity and loud chaos
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
I’ve always heard your gentle voice
И снились милые черты.
And glimpsed your features in my dreams.
Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной
As years passed and winds scattered
Рассеял прежние мечты,
My long-past hopes, and in those days,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
I lacked your voice’s divine spell
Твой небесные черты.
And the bless’d features of your face.
В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Held in darkness and separation,
Тянулись тихо дни мои
My days dragged in strife.
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Lacking faith and inspiration,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.
Lacking tears and love and life.
Душе настало пробужденье:
But the time arrives; my soul awakens,
И вот опять явилась ты,
And again you appear before me
Как милолетное виденье,
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Как гений чистой красоты.
Like the soul of purest grace.
И сердце бьется в упоенье,
Again my heart beats in rapture,
И для него воскресли вновь
Again everything awakens:
И божество, и вдохновенье,
My long-past faith and inspiration,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.
And the tears and life and love.
Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow
THE DREAMER
The moon pursues her stealthy course,
The shades grow gray upon the hill,
Silence has fallen on the stream,
Fresh from the valley blows the wind;
The songster of spring days has hushed
His notes in waste of gloomy groves,
The herds are couched along the fields,
And calm the flight of midnight hour.
And night the peaceful ingle-nook
Has with her misty livery clad;
In stove the flames have ceased to dart,
And candle down to socket burned;
The saintly face of household gods
Now darkly gloom from modest shrine,
And taper pale in dimness burns
Before the guardians of home.
With head in hand bent lowly down,
In sweet forgetfulness deep plunged,
I lose myself in fancy dreams,
And lie awake on lonely couch;
As with the weird dark shades of night,
Illumined by the soft moon’s rays,
Wingèd dreams, in hurrying crowds,
Flock down and strongly seize my soul.
And now flows forth a soft, soft voice,
The golden chords in music tremble;
And in the hour when all is still,
The dreamer young begins his song,
With secret ache of soul possessed
And dreams that come from God alone,
With flying hand he boldly smites
The breathing strings of heavenly lyre.
Blessed is he who, born in lowly hut,
Prays not for fortune or for wealth;
From him great Jove, with watchful eyes,
Will turn mishap that teems with ruin;
At eve, on lotos flowers couched,
He lies enwrapped in softest sleep;
Nor harshest sound of warrior’s trump
Has power to stir him from his dream.
Let glory, with her daring front,
Strike loudly on her noisy shield;
In vain she tempts me from afar,
With skinny finger red in blood;
In vain war’s gaudy banners float,
Or battle-ranks their pomp display;
Peace has higher charms for gentle heart, -
Nor do I care for glory’s prize.
In solitude my blood is tamed,
And tranquilly the days pass by:
From God I have the gift of song,
Of gifts the rarest, most divine;
And never has the Muse betrayed me:
Be thou with me, oh goddess dear,
The vilest home or desert wild
Shall have a beauty of their own.
In dusky dawn of golden days
The untried singer thou hast blessed,
As with a wreath of myrtle fresh
Thou didst encrown his childish brow,
And, bringing with thee light from heaven,
Radiant made his humble cell;
And, gently breathing, thou didst lean
O’er his cradle with blessing sweet.
For ever be my friend and guide
Even to the threshold of the grave!
O’er me hover with gentlest dreams,
And shroud me with thy shielding wings!
Banish far all doubt and sorrow,
Possess the mind with fond deceit,
A glory shed o’er my far life,
And scatter wide its darkest gloom!
Thus peace shall bless my parting hour,
The genius of Death shall come,
And whisper, knocking at the door,
“The dwelling of the shades awaits thee!”
E’en so, on winter eve sweet sleep
Frequents with joy the home of peace,
With lotos crowned, and lowly bent
On restful staff of languid ease
THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH
The world he fled,
Of love and pleasure once the nursling,
And is as one who lies in sleep.
Or cold of nameless tomb, forgot.
Time was, he loved our village games,
When as the girls beneath the shade
Of trees would loot the meadow free;-
But now in village song and dance
No more is heard his greeting light.
His elders had with envy marked
His easy gait and bearing gay,
And, smiling sadly, ‘mongst themselves
Oft shook their hoary heads, and said:
“We too once loved the choral dance,
And shone as wits and jesters keen:
But wait: the years will make their round.
And thou shalt be what we are now.
Be taught by us, life’s jocund guest,
The world to thee will soon prove cold:
Thou now mayst dance!”.... The elders live,
Whilst he, in ripest bloom of youth,
Has, fading, perished ere his time.
Wild the feast, and loud the song-,
Although his voice is ever mute;
New friends now lill the vacant seat;
Seldom, seldom, when maidens chat,
And talk of love, his name is spoke;
Of all, whose hearts his words made flame,
It may be, one will shed a tear,
As memory recalls some scene
Of joy long buried in his grave —
And wherefore weep?
Bathed by a stream,
In calm array, the lines of tombs,
Each guarded by its wooden cross,
Lie hidden in the antique grove,
There, close beside the highroad’s edge,
Where old beech-trees their branches wave,
His heart at peace and free from care,
Sleeps his last sleep the gentle youth.