To My Penates

Fatherland Penates! come,
Kind protectors of my home!
Not in gold or jewels rich--
Can ye love your simple shrine?
Smile, then, sweetly from your niche
On this lowly hut of mine.
Thus removed from worldly care,
I, a wearied wanderer,
In this silent corner here,
Offer no ambitious prayer.
Here if ye consent to dwell,
Happiness shall court my cell.
Kind and courteous ever prove,
Beaming on me light and love!
Not with streams of fragrant wine,
Not with incense smoking high,
Does the poet seek your shrine--
His is mild devotion’s sigh,
Grateful tears, the still soft fire
Of feeling heart: and sweetest strains,
Inspired by the Aonian quire.
O Lares! in my dwelling rest,
Smile on the poet where he reigns,
And sure the poet shall be blest.
Come, survey my dwelling over;
I’ll describe it if I’m able:
In the window stands a table,
Three-legged, tott’ring, with a cover,
Gay some centuries ago,
Ragged, bare and faded now.
In a corner, lost to fame,
To honour lost, the blunted sword
(That relic of my fathers’ name)
Harmless hangs, by rust devoured.
Here are pillaged authors laid--
There, a hard and creaking bed:
Broken, crumbling, argile-ware;
Furniture strewed here and there.
And these in higher love I hold,
Than sofas rich with silk and gold,
Or china vases gay and fair.
Kind Penates! thus I pray--
O may wealth and vanity
Never hither find their way,
Never here admitted be!
Let the vile, the slavish soul,
Let the sons of pomp and pride,
Fortune’s spoilt ones, turn aside;
Not on them nor theirs I call!
Tottering beggar! hither come,
Thou art bidden to my home;
Throw thy useless crutch away;
Come--be welcome and be gay!
Warmth and rest thy limbs require,
Stretch thee by my cheerful fire:
Reverend teacher! old and hoary,
Thou whom years and toils have taught,
Who with many a storm hast fought,
Storms of time and storms of glory!
Take thy merry balalaika,
Sing thy struggles o’er again;
In the battle’s bloody plain,
Where thou swungst the rude nagaika;
Midst the cannon’s thunder-roar,
Midst the sabres clashing o’er;
Trumpets sounding, banners flying
O’er the dead and o’er the dying;
While thy never-wearied blade
Foes on foes in darkness laid.
And thou, Lisette! at evening steal,
Through the shadow-cover’d vale,
To this soft and sweet retreat;
Steal, my nymph, on silent feet.
Let a brother’s hat disguise
Thy golden locks, thy azure eyes;
O’er thee be my mantle thrown,
Bind my warlike sabre on:
When the treacherous day is o’er,
Knock, fair maiden, at my door;
Enter then, thou soldier sweet!
Throw thy mantle at my feet;
Let thy curls, so brightly glowing,
On thy ivory shoulders flowing,
Be unbound: thy lily breast
Heave, no more with robes opprest!
“Thou enchantress! is it so?
Sweetest, softest shepherdess!
Art thou come indeed to bless
With thy smiles my cottage now?”
O her snowy hands are pressing
Warmly, wildly pressing mine!
Mine her rosy lips are blessing,
Sweet as incense from the shrine,
Sweet as zephyr’s breath divine
Gently murmuring through the bough;
Even so she whispers now:
“O my heart’s friend, I am thine;
Mine, beloved one! art thou.”
What a privileged being he,
Who in life’s obscurity,
Underneath a roof of thatch,
Till the morning dawns above,
Sweetly sleeps, while angels watch,
In the arms of holy love!
But the stars are now retreating
From the brightening eye of day,
And the little birds are greeting,
Round their nests, the dewy ray.
Hark! the very heaven is ringing
With the matin song of peace:
Hark! a thousand warblers singing
Waft their music on the breeze:
All to life, to love are waking,
From their wings their slumbers shaking;
But my Lila still is sleeping
In her fair and flowery nest;
And the zephyr, round her creeping,
Fondly fans her breathing breast;
O’er her cheeks of roses straying,
With her golden ringlets playing:
From her lips I steal a kiss;
Drink her breath: but roses fairest,
Richest nectar, rapture dearest,
Sweetest, brightest rays of bliss,
Never were as sweet as this.
Sleep, thou loved one! sweetly sleep;
Angels here their vigils keep!
Blest, in innocence arrayed,
I from fortune’s favours flee;
Shrouded in the forest-shade,
More than blest by love and thee.
Time on dove-like wing glides by:
O! has gold a ray so bright
As thy seraph-smile of light
Throws o’er happy poverty?
Thou good genius! in thy view
Wealth is vile and worthless too:
Riches never brought thee down
From thy splendour-girded throne;
But beneath the shadowy tree
Thou hast deigned to smile on me.
Fancy, daughter of the skies,
Thoughts, on wings of light that rise,
Waft my spirit gay and free,
When the storm of passion slumbers,
Far above humanity,
To the Aonian land of numbers,
Where the choirs of music stray;
Rapture, like a feather’d arrow,
Bursting life’s dark prison narrow,
Bears me to the heavens away.
Sovereigns of Parnassus! stay
Till the morning’s rosy ray
Throws its brightness o’er your hill,
Stay with nature’s poet still.
O reveal the shadowy band,
Minstrels of my fatherland!
Let them pass the Stygian shore,
From the ethereal courts descending:
Yonder airy spirits o’er,
O! I hear their voices blending:
List! the heavenly echoes come
Wafted to my privileged home;
Music hovers round my head,
From the living and the dead.
Our Parnassian giant, proud,
Tow’ring o’er the rest I see;
And, like storm or thunder loud,
Hear his voice of majesty.
Sons and deeds of glory singing
A majestic swan of light;
Now the harp of angels stringing,
Now he sounds the trump of fight;
Midst the muses’, graces’ throng,
Sailing through the heaven along;
Horace’ strength, and Pindar’s fire,
Blended in his mighty lyre.
Now he thunders, swift and strong,
Even like Suna o’er the waste;
Now, like Philomela’s song,
Soft and spring-like, sweet and chaste,
Gently breathing through the wild,
Heavenly fancy’s best loved child!
Gladdening and enchanting one!
History’s gayest, fairest son!
He who oft with Agathon
Visits evening’s fane of bliss:
Or in Plato’s master tone,
Near the illustrious Parthenon,
Calls the rays of wisdom down
With a voice sublime as his.
Now amidst the darkness walking,
Where old Russia had her birth:
With the Vladimirij talking,
As they ruled o’er half the earth:
Or Sclavonian heroes hoary,
Cradled in a night of glory!
Sweetest of the sylphs above,
And the graces’ darling, see!
O how musically he
Tunes his Citra’s melody,
To Dushenka and to love.
Near, Meletzy smiling stands,
Mutual thoughts their souls employ;
Heart in heart, and hands in hands,
Lo! they sing a song of joy;
Next engaged with love in play,
Poets and philosophers,
Close to Phædrus and Pilpay,
Lo! Dmitriev appears
Sporting like a happy child,
Midst the forest’s tenants wild,
Garlanded with smiling wreaths;
Truth unveiled beside him breathes.
See two brothers toying there,
Nature’s children--Phœbus’ priests:
Krĭloff leading Khemnitzer!
Teaching poets! ye whose song
Charms the idle moments long,
When the wearied spirit rests.
Heavenly choir! the graces twine
O’er you garlands all divine;
And with you the joys I drink,
Sparkling round Pierian brink,
While I sing in raptured glory,
“Ed io anche son pittore.”
Friendly Lares! O conceal
From man’s envious, jealous eye,
Those sweet transports which I feel,
Those blest rays of heart-born joy!
Fortune! hence thy treasures bear,
And thy sparkling vanities:
I can look with careless eyes
On thy flight--my little bark,
Safely led through tempests dark,
Finds a peaceful haven here--
Those who sported in thy ray
From my thoughts have passed away.
But ye gayer, wiser ones,
Glory’s, pleasure’s cheerful sons!
Ye who with the graces walk,
Ye who with the muses talk;
Hurrying o’er life’s visions gay
In intellectual children’s play;
Careless, joyous sages!--you,
Philosophers and idlers too!
Ye who hate the chains of slavery!
Ye who love the songs of bravery!
In your happiest moments come,
Come, and crowd the muses’ home.
Let the laugh and let the bowl
Banish sorrow from the soul:
Come, Zh******, hither hieing,
Time is like an arrow flying--
Pleasure like an arrow fleet:
Here let friendship’s smile of gladness
Brighten every cloud of sadness--
Wreathe with cypress, roses sweet.
Love is life;--thy garlands bring,
V****, while they’re blossoming:
Bind them blooming round our brow--
Bacchus, friends! is with us now.
Favourite of the muses, fill:
Pledge and drink, and pledge us still!
Aristippus’ grandson--thou!
O thou lov’st the Aonian lasses,
And the harmonious clang of glasses;
But when evening’s silence fills
All the vales and all the hills,
Thou, remote from worldly folly,
Tak’st thy walk with melancholy;
And with that unearthly dame
(Contemplation is her name)
Who conveys the illumined sense
In sublime abstraction hence--
Up to those high and bright abodes
Where men are angels--angels, gods.
Give me now thy friendly hand;
Leave for me thy spirit-land!
Come, companion of my joy,
We will all time’s power destroy
On our chazha solotoi.
See behind, with locks so gray,
How he sweeps life’s gems away;
His remorseless scythe is mowing
All the flowers around us blowing.
Be it ours to drive before us
Bliss--though fate is frowning o’er us!
Time may hurry, if he will;
We will hurry swifter still;
Drink the cup of ecstasy,
Pluck the flow’rets as we fly,
Spite of time and destiny:
Many a star and many a flower
Shine and bloom in life’s short hour,
And their rays and their perfume
For us shall shine--for us shall bloom.
Soon shall we end our pilgrimage;
And at the close of life’s short stage
Sink smiling on our dusty bed:
The careless wind shall o’er us sweep;
Where sleep our sires, their sons shall sleep
With evening’s darkness round our head.
There let no hired mourners weep;
No costly incense fan the sod;
No bell pretend to mourn; no hymn
Be heard midst midnight’s shadows dim--
Can they delight a clay-cold clod?
No! if love’s tribute ye will pay,
Assemble in the moonlight ray,
And throw fresh flow’rets o’er my clay:
Let my Penates sleep with me--
Here bring the cup I loved--the flute
I played--and twine its form, though mute,
With branches from the ivy-tree!
No grave-stone need the wanderer tell,
That he who lived, and loved so well,
Is sleeping in serenity.