Russian Elegiac Poet
Yevgeny Abromovich Baratynsky
Russian Elegiac Poet
The mysterious power of harmony
Will expiate a heavy delusion
And tame a revolting desire.
Don't imitate: the gift is special here,
And with its own greatness it is great;
Either Doratov or the new Shakespeare -
You are not liked: they hate returning, yet.
The law of a bard and Israel's the same:
To make the idol is the crime and shame!
And when, Mickiewicz, oh, my bard, elated,
I saw you by the Byron's feet - I thought:
Rise, rise immediately, a priest humiliated!
Rise and remember: you're yourself a god!
You're useless, days! The earthly world will never
Change its used games!
We know them all, and our future, clever,
Predicts the same.
And not in vain you seethed and tossed in hurry
To live and grow,
Before the body, you engraved your fit, so starry,
My frenzied soul!
And having closed long ago the narrow circuit
Of worldly sense,
You drowse under breathe of dreams, recurrent;
But the body, else
Observes the day's dawn, aimlessly supplanting
Again the night,
The fruitless evening, dully plunging, -
The day's end, blunt.
When, by sorrow inspired,
The poet sings his own pine,
Whose soul will be cold and tired
To give not him the answer, fine?
Who, greedy for the old damnation,
Will dare to scoff at sadness, else?
But all are cold to execration,
The imitated cry's vexation,
Affected wailing is a jest!
The poet, stirring every soul,
Has reached the suffers' mysteries,
Without worm of somewhat boiling,
Complaisant labored musings' tricks.
In struggle with fate's severe pressure
He took the measure of high strengths,
And bought their rudiment expression
At the price of painful hearty cramps.
Therefore his image is encircled
By rays of the unfading light,
And, like a martyr, he is honored
By people of the different kind.
But your Muse, so meretricious,
Which dreams to raise emphatic wishes
In humane hearts by loaned pine,
Is like a beggar outrageous,
Who begs for contributions gracious,
Keeping a child, who isn't her one.
I did not blinded with the Muse, my dear:
She'll not be called the beauty, charming heart,
And throngs of youths, when sought her passing here,
As crazy lovers, will not run behind.
She has not any wish or gift to raise desires
By plays of eyes, by elegant attires,
Or by the clever and sarcastic speech;
But, the high world could sometimes be bewitched
By singularity of whole her expression,
By simple structure of her quiet phrase;
And, rather than with biting alienation,
It'll honour her with the negligent praise.
When fixed his gaze upon the stone,
The artist saw a nymph inside,
And fire ran through vein his own -
He flew to her in all his heart.
But though full of strong desire,
He's now overcome the spell:
The chisel, piecemeal and unhurried,
From his high goddess, sanctified,
Removes a shell after a shell.
In the sweet and vague preoccupation
More than a day or a year will pass;
But from the goddess of his passion,
The fallen veil will not be last,
Until, perceiving his desire,
Under the chisel's gentle caress,
And answering by a gaze of fire,
Sweat Galatea brings entire
The sage into a first embrace.
Wise Providence gave our perception
The choice between two different fates:
Either blind hope and agitation,
Or hopelessness and deadly rest.
Let him trust to seductive hopes,
Who's sure with his unpracticed mind,
Who knows mocking fortunes slopes,
Only through rumour, spread behind.
Have hope, young people, brave and ardent!
Fly with your pairs of strongest wings;
For you the projects, great and sudden,
And young heart's ever burning dreams!
But you, who've now tried and measured
All humane fate, deep grief and strife,
And vanity of humane pleasure -
Who doomed to knowledge of the life!
Away with those crowds tempting!
In quiet peace, live your days, last,
And guard the coldness, safely saving
Your now apathetic heart.
Just like the dry dead peoples' corpses,
Which blessed with senseless of disease,
Waked up by spells of lords of forests,
Rise from their graves, gnashing their teeth,
So you, if kindle in hearts desire
And trust to the deceptive moods,
Will be awaked only for mire,
For fresh pain of the former wounds.
Poison, we drink in love - the sweetest one,
But that's the poison, what we drink,
And always pay for joy, that's briefest one,
With sadness of the long days' link.
"The flames of love are flames of happiness",
Everyone says; but what's a fact?
It empties, in its fierce craziness,
The every soul, it attracts!
Who will be able to stifle the memories,
Of days of suffering and happiness,
Of your enchanting days, oh love?
Then I'd return to life, to joy and fun,
And put my soul before your bright one
For golden dreams my youth above.
We diligently watch the world,
We diligently watch the people -
Wait for the wonder in their middle.
And what are fruits of the long years' plots?
What will, at last, discern the eyes, sharp-sighted?
What will cognize the ever-lofty mind
On a top of the experience and finds? …
The essence of a proverb, always cited.
A bard's sweet song mends ailing constitution.
The harmony's ever-mysterious reign
Will compensate the cumbersome illusion
And curb the sense that's passionate and strained.
The poet's soul, in a verse poured out,
Will be released from all her heavy pines;
And holy poetry will give the world around
And all its purity - to its girlfriend, at once.
I love you, goddesses of singing,
But your invasion, so fine,
That tremor of the spirit thrilling,
Is a herald of the future pines.
The Muses' love and Fortune's striking
Are one. I'm silent. I'm afraid:
My fingers, casting on the light strings,
Might here awake these storms and lightnings
In which my sleeping fate was laid.
And, with strong torments ever wound,
I leave the Muse, who favours me,
And say: "Till tomorrow, sounds,
Let the day expire quietly."