To the Volga

Now furl your sails--and heaven be blest!
For we have reach’d the promised land:
And, Volga, thou whose wavy breast
Has brought us to this smiling strand--
Volga!--the king of waters--named
The great, the proud, the glorious--famed
In history--now farewell! ’Twas thou
Who listenedst to the poet’s song
Ere mingled with earth’s busy throng:
To thee his Muse was wont to bow.

And all my hopes have now been crown’d,
And every joy has been fulfill’d,
Which, when my childish thoughts look’d round,
Some fond aspiring dream instill’d.
When towards thy banks I stretch’d my eye,
Peopled thy shores with industry,
Spread on thy waves the silver sail!--
The dream is realised--I view
The picture which my fancy drew--
Vision of promised brightness--hail!

I held sweet converse with thy winds,
I heard thy waves, thy tempests roar;
I read each threatening cloud that binds
The soul in fear, and shakes the shore.
As from a tower I look’d, the height
Of granite mountains dimm’d my sight;
And lost, and wondering as I view’d,
I ask’d--Who saw the days of yore?
Proud cities rise her borders o’er,
Where ’twas a desert’s solitude!

Here, meadows, villages, and herds,
And smiling cottages are placed;
There, flowers and furze, and savage birds,
Are the sole tenants of the waste,
And nought seems wanting to my sight.
I hear--I hear the gay delight
Of dancing nymphs midst yonder trees;
They fill the air with melody,
While, from his gloomy cavity,
The savage boar their revelling sees.

The sailor, as he skims thy wave,
Gathers the listening crew around,
And pointing to a crumbling grave,
Says, ‘Rasin there his dwelling found.’
But pensive silence checks his tongue,
The damp sweat on his brow is hung,
His finger trembles, frozen by cold;
For o’er his thoughts there rush a throng
Of the wild images which song
Hath gather’d from the mists of old.

Yes! midst the ruins time hath pil’d,
There strides upon thy waves the wan
And awful form of John the Wild,
The terrible of Astrachan.
I see his hordes, in rude affright,
Raining, from yonder vineyard’s height,
Their arrow streams upon the Russ--
The Russ--who hurries to the fray
And conquers--see those hordes obey,
And, trembling, yield their land to us.

I heard the Caspian oracle
Speak in a voice of thunder--‘See!
‘Persians! your fate how terrible:
‘He comes--the lord of victory!
‘A thousand bolts his hand sends forth,
‘He rules the south, he guides the north,
‘The crescent and the lion flee!
‘Hark! for he comes--their future king
‘The subject waves of Volga bring,
‘Derbent! thy lord of victory.’

So spake the sea-god--and his tears
Fell from his watery eyes like rain;
The waves roll’d round the man of years,
He plunged him in the waves again.
But, Volga, brighter triumphs thou
Wreath’st in thy glory-garland now,
And fairer palms of victory wave;
The Caspian trembles at thy feet,
The Sound, the Belt, thy trophies greet,
And all the ocean is thy slave.

And shalt thou not be sung, bright river?
And like thy blessings be thy praise;
Shall music’s voice be dead for ever,
Nor to thy fame one anthem raise?
O would the god of song inspire,
Ganges ne’er heard so loud a lyre
As I would tune, sweet stream, for thee!
Euphrates and old father Nile,
Before thy glory should be vile,
And earth resound thy majesty!