SPECIMENS OF THE RUSSIAN POETS,

WITH

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.

PART THE SECOND.

Батюшковъ

BY

JOHN BOWRING, F.L.S.

AND HONORARY MEMBER OF SEVERAL FOREIGN SOCIETIES.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER,

AVE-MARIA LANE.

1823.

[ii]

LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

[iii]

TO HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY ALEXANDER, AUTOCRAT OF ALL THE RUSSIAS, &c. &c. &c.

The flattering mark of approbation with which you were pleased to honour the former volume of the Russian Anthology, induces me to inscribe the name of your Majesty upon the dedication page of this.

When the delusions of conquest and the records of political changes shall have passed away, the purer and nobler triumphs of civilization and literature will be remembered, and bear along the stream of time, to the gratitude of future generations, the names of their illustrious [iv] protectors. To have contributed to their influence is a glory which no time can tarnish—it is worthy of the worthiest—it will be your highest title—a title brighter than the brightest jewel of your imperial crown.

The destiny of millions is in your Majesty’s hands. Under your auspices, your empire has made gigantic strides in knowledge and in power. The future is formed by the present. O, be it your most imperial ambition to make that knowledge and that power the source of virtue and of liberty! Such are the wishes, and such the hopes, of one to whom your reputation is dearer than to a thousand flatterers, and who is, in all sincerity,

Your Majesty’s most obedient,

And devoted humble servant,

JOHN BOWRING.

Boulogne Prison, Oct. 20, 1822.

[v]

INTRODUCTION.

I am encouraged to commit another volume of ‘Specimens of the Russian Poets,’ to that opinion which so kindly welcomed, and so favourably judged the former. I write now, instructed, and I hope benefited, by the very extensive notice which the first essay obtained; and I may indulge an honest feeling of complacency and pride in remembering, that, in almost every instance, candour and generosity characterised the literary articles to which my experiment gave birth. I avoided, generally, any criticism on the works for which I requested the patient [vi] judgment of my countrymen. I deemed the object most interesting to trace the early developement of poetical literature in a nation bursting into civilization. The spectacle was before me, and its phenomena left a strong impression on my mind. I was witnessing not a family, not a tribe, not a feeble community passing from barbarism to light and knowledge, but a mighty people whose aspirations after political influence, and whose excitements to foreign conquests, were among the most striking facts which

accompanied their onward progress. Others, I thought, could not fail to trace the influence of their early literature upon their future destiny. It was my object to gather together the mementos which their poets strewed around them as they moved forward. I have continued my labours, and I believe, that while philosophy [vii] will find much matter for sober thought in these varied pages, the statesman will do well to study the tendency and the character of that fountain-head of popular feeling whose waters will spread over generations of men, and over the widest empire of the world.

I have said that the intellectual state of a country cannot be judged of by its productions of literature or of art: and I suspect strange delusions exist in our minds with regard to the attainments of the mass of society in those countries which our classical associations hallow with every thing that is bright and beautiful. America has produced no Murillo, no Cervantes, no Calderon; yet who would hesitate to rank her people far above the unenlightened—the brave, the generous, though unenlightened—inhabitants of the European peninsula? The [viii] extreme depression of the many leads to the extraordinary elevation of the few, and poetry sits on the very pinnacle of civilization. It may rear itself like a pyramid, where all around is a waste. So, a land may be covered with verdure and cultivation, where no column is raised to commemorate the past—where no pile makes an appeal to the sympathies of the future—where the generations of men flourish and fade, ‘and the place that knew them knows them no more.’ The possession of every object of

reasonable desire leaves little scope to the imagination, which is the child of hopes and fears. Such a land, however, must necessarily be the abode of freedom, for freedom alone can give that equality of rights whose influence produces universal happiness. A real equality of rights, and of security in their possession, will necessarily [ix] bring with them something like an equality of knowledge, at least of that knowledge which has the most direct influence upon human felicity. Well understood freedom is that which provides for the well-being of the great majority of mankind—it is that which leaves in every individual’s hand the greatest possible sum of political influence and power which is consistent with the interest of the whole. Despotism is that which provides for a small minority by the sacrifice of the mass of society; it is that which arms itself with the greatest possible sum of authority, and leaves no strength, and will communicate no intelligence to the people. A strong government—a government too strong to be influenced

by the national will, and which makes no real appeal to that will, must necessarily be a bad government. That government is alone wise, [x] and that government is alone legitimate, which requires and possesses the support of popular opinion, and which is too weak to oppose, and too honest to wish to oppose, that sanction by which it was created, and by which it may be destroyed.

The history of time gone by will afford few facts to assist us in judging of the tendencies of those marvellous changes which are now going on in the intellectual world. Truth and knowledge shut up in a few individual minds, and enlightening only a narrow circle already half enlightened, had nothing to connect them with the great masses of society. They were torches which blazed in a chamber, leaving darkness behind them, till other torches were kindled. Now the light of instruction is unextinguished—is inextinguishable. It is not [xi] exclusive in its blessings, nor bounded in its journeyings. Its roots are planted among the poor. They are entering on their heritage, which cannot be taken from them. The treasure is confided to their keeping—to the keeping of the many and the strong.

But though society is obviously tending to a state in which some of its existing gradations must necessarily be destroyed, in which the wider repartition of knowledge must inevitably lead to a more equal distribution of wealth, of political power and of consequent enjoyment, it must be borne in memory, that the influence of intellect is incredibly great, and that the master-minds of a nation give a deep impression to the national character. I have done violence to my feelings by translating many of the military and warlike productions of the Russian poets; but they will not be without their use. [xii] They will serve to show how the feelings of hatred and malevolence are excited; how that love of outrage which is called ‘martial spirit’ creeps into the bosom of a people, and corrodes all the mild and all the generous virtues. They will show the arts by which the slumbering passions are aroused, and how terrible it is to arouse them. Nor will such compositions excite our sympathy—they are directed against us as well as others. Our shame and sin are

indeed heavier and older than theirs. Let us never forget, that he who hates another prompts another to hate him. We cannot keep all the malevolence and all the vengeance for ourselves; it will return upon us with renewed strength and redoubled ferocity. The wound may be inflicted for a momentary purpose, but we leave the weapon there to canker and fester for ever.

On other grounds their introduction is almost [xiii] indispensable. They are a necessary and an important part of the general picture. Among these compositions, that of Zhukovsky, ‘The Minstrel in the Russian Camp,’ is perhaps the most popular of modern poetical productions in Russia.

So much for generalities, which I hope will not be thought misplaced. And if some regret be felt, that so many of the Russian poets have followed the example of us, ‘the more enlightened nations,’ in their admiration of heroes and conquerors, and in their laud of restless and ruthless ambition, some of them are entitled to a higher and a nobler praise—they have sung the gentler influences of truth, and knowledge, and virtue, the progress of civilization, and the spreading happiness of man.

A remark has been made and repeated on [xiv] the subject of the former volume: ‘These poets have little originality.’ Now something must be allowed for the extreme difficulty of preserving in translation all the characteristics of the author. Many phrases cannot be verbally rendered—many associations cannot be felt. To a Russian red and beautiful are synonymous; he uses the same word for both. How can the imagery of his mind be transferred to an English reader? Besides, too much is expected on the score of originality. Man is every where the same being, with the same feelings and affections, the same senses, and nearly the same desires: their modifications are but slightly varied by circumstances, and the great tablet of nature too has far less variety than we are wont to deem. Does a Russian see any thing brighter than the sun, or vaster than the ocean, [xv] or more beautiful than a cloudless night? Is any thing more venerable than his mountains, or more poetic than his streams? Such are his elements of song—are they not also ours?

The subjects of poetry too are less extensive while general literature is in its cradle, and their number is still more limited where the form of government prevents the mind from attaining its full expansion, and bars out some of the warmest and sublimest feelings—such as indignation against oppression—and others of the tenderest—such as sympathy with the oppressed. The intenser passions of the poet, unable to exercise themselves in the high range of patriotism, are spent in the songs of love and valour; while his calmer affections dwell among the daily business of society, recording the joy of the parent over the new-born infant, the [xvi] rapture of the bridegroom, or the plaints that wail the dead. The poetry which is here presented is the poetry of a highly-imitative, strongly-feeling, but despotically-governed people, erected upon a magnificent, sonorous, and flexible language, blending something of the wildness of oriental character with the sternness and the sobriety of European precision. That the impress of our literature, and that of

our neighbours, is to be most distinctly traced, is quite certain. Nearly half the poetry which Russia possesses is translation. Their leading authors have travelled, and have taken back with them the treasures they found: and they have done good service. The most obvious resemblance is to the German school: and to the honour of Germans be it said, that their influence on the civilization of Russia has been [xvii] most extensive and most salutary. Their patient industry, their general intelligence, their social habits of life, have so interblended them with the Russian people, working a silent but an effective change, that the whole mass will become leavened with their long-suffering, their industrious, and intellectual virtues. The necessary result of an habitual intercourse with foreign nations—an intercourse established by Peter the Great, and most wisely encouraged by all his successors, was the introduction of models which placed the poets of Russia, as to form at least, on a level with the most cultivated people of the south. Their language easily

lent itself to all the varieties of versification, and without the gradations of advancing improvement, they adopted a style of poetical composition which they have found no reason to modify or to change.

[xviii]

On the whole, the present volume will possess a character much more decidedly national than the former. A variety of poems immediately connected with the earlier history of Russia, and others representing the peculiar habits of the Russians, are introduced. The national songs, especially, will, I trust, excite some attention. These are the poetry of the people. These are the fragments whose authors are never raised from the darkness of oblivion—these are the joy and the study of the peasantry, their consolation in the dreariness of their wintry dwellings, conveyed from tongue to tongue through many a generation. These are no subjects for criticism, for criticism cannot reach them—it cannot abstract one voice from the chorus, nor persuade the village youths and maidens that the measure is false, or the music is discordant. The forms of versification, though [xix] some of them are rude and irregular, I have endeavoured to preserve, as a part of their original charm. I have heard them sung in the wooden huts of the cottagers; and have been cheered by them when the boor has whirled

me in his uncouth sledge over the frozen snow. The rude melody, often gentle and plaintive, in which they found utterance, still vibrates in my ear. I ask for them no admiration—they are the delight of millions. The fame of the Iliad is nothing to theirs!

I had not seen the Poetische Erzeugnisse of Karl Friedrich von der Borg, printed at Dorpat in 1819, when the former volume was published. I confess I was surprised at the almost verbal resemblance of some of his translations to my own. In this second volume I have been able to strengthen myself with his opinion as to the [xx] selection, and to avail myself of his most interesting Specimens for my assistance. His fidelity is admirable.

This volume was written during my solitary confinement in the prison of Boulogne: it made days and hours swift and pleasurable, which might have been most long and wearisome. When my spirit reposed from that exciting indignation which seemed to exhaust its energies, it was among the poets of Sclavonia that it lingered. I shall recal this memorable epoch of my life with gratitude and pride—gratitude to that active sympathy which my situation awakened, and pride in the recollection, that in the darkest moment no dejection, far less despondency, had place in my mind. I could picture, and did picture every thing that injustice, cruelty, and violence, might assemble [xxi] for my humiliation or my destruction. I communed with my conscience, and anticipated the worst with cheerfulness. Surely there is something in principles which cannot be shaken by the terrors of life, nor the fears of death.

J. B.

Boulogne Prison, Oct. 25, 1822.

[xxiii]

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

[3]

RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY.

Lomonossov.

ODE.

FROM JOB.

[10]

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

[12]

EVENING MEDITATIONS,

ON SEEING THE AURORA BOREALIS.⁠[1]⁠

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This Ode was given in the first volume, but as it ought to accompany the poem which precedes it, it is now published in another form.

[15]

Derzhavin.

[17]

TO A NEIGHBOUR.

[21]

THE SHIPWRECK.

[22]

FRAGMENT.

[23]

Dmitriev.

[25]

JERMAK.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

OLD MAN.

YOUNG MAN.

[35]

MOSKVA RESCUED.

[44]

TO THE VOLGA.

[49]

ENJOYMENT.

Naslazhdenie.

[51]

Akh! kogda ja prezhde snala!

[53]

Stonet sisĭi golubochik.

[55]

TO CHLOE.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The principal inhabitants and warriors of Siberia.

[2] The Tartar, the Ostyak, and the Bogulich nations.

[3] Kutshum lost his kingdom, and delivered himself up to the Calmucks, by whom he was afterwards slain.

[4] The idols of Siberia.

[5] Mehmet-Kul was the king’s brother, whom Jermak made prisoner and sent to the Tzar Ivan Vassilievich. The noble family of Sibinsky have their origin from him.

[6] Racha was the Jupiter of the Ostyaks. Kutshum, who was bred in the Mahommedan faith, whether by argument or by force, caused the adoption of the Koran through a great part of Siberia.

[7] The Russian Tzar.

[8] The crown of Kutshum is still preserved in the museum at Moskow, among the imperial insignia. The events referred to in the above poem occurred in the year 1580. Ataman Jermak was sent by Ivan Vassilievich against Kutshum, and drove him from his capital, called Siberia (whence the name of the country): it was situated near Tobolsk.—See Karamsin’s History of Russia.

[9] The French also employed the steeples of Moskva as watch-houses or observatories.

[57]

Zhukovsky.

[59]

THE MINSTREL IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP⁠[1]⁠.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

MINSTREL.

WARRIORS.

[92]

CATHERINE⁠[13]⁠.

SVÆTLANA.

[106]

THEON AND ÆSCHINES.

[113]

THE BARD.

[116]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Zhukovsky accompanied the Russian army from Moscow. He wrote this piece just before the battle on the Tarutina.

[2] These words are attributed by the old Russian historians to the great Duke Svatoslav Sgorevich, and are said to have led to one of his most brilliant victories over the Greeks. “Let us not shame our Russian land—Let our bones lie here—There is no disgrace in dying!”

[3] Dmitrij Ivanovich (of the Don), the saviour of his country from Tartarian slavery. Ever since the unfortunate battle of Kalka (1223), the hopes of redemption seemed feeble and distant. He assembled his troops, and defeated the countless hosts of Mamai on the shores of the Don.

[4] Mazeppa.

[5] Prince Smolensko.

[6] Before the battle of Borodino an eagle hovered round his head, and was observed by the whole army, who set up a general shout of joy.

[7] Baggovuth was killed in the battle of the Tarutina.

[8] Near Lutzin, where he had passed his boyhood, and where his mother yet lived.

[9] Kutaissov was a young poet of considerable talents: he was killed at the battle of Borodino. His horse was seen wildly galloping about, covered with blood; and his body could not be discovered for a long time.

[10] Bagration received his mortal wound at the battle of Borodino; but it was for a long time expected that he would recover.

[11] Holy Alliance.

[12] Of Bojan little is known. He is supposed to have accompanied the Russians in the dark ages, and to have excited them to valour with his magic lyre.

[13] I have adopted the word Catherine. Svætlana does not easily accommodate itself to our organs of sense.

[117]

Karamsin.

[119]

RAÏSSA.

[125]

THE HAVEN.

[127]

SONG OF THE GOOD TZAR.

Pæsnya o dobrom Tzaræ.

[129]

TO ——.

[131]

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

[133]

Dolgorukov.

[135]

THE LEGACY.

[141]