Malvern Hills :: :: University of Virginia Library

AMID Siberian wastes and trackless ways,
The Cossack, Markoff, pass'd his happy days:
No rapturous hope or rankling care he knew,
His means were simple, as his wants were few.
When summer clothed the hill, and deck'd the plain,
He well prepared for winter's cheerless reign;
And, when the wintry snows the scene o'ercast,
He thought of summer, and endured the blast.
Thus life roll'd on, and thus he soothed his breast,
Freedom his guide, and cheerfulness his guest;
Till restless thoughts, and vain desires, arose
To break his calm and long-enjoy'd repose.

Musing, beside his hut, the Cossack stood,
And listen'd to the sound of neighbouring wood,
Whose slow and solemn murmurs fill'd his ear,
Through all the changeful seasons of the year.
The dark Uralian hills before him rose;
December's wind, around, impetuous blows:
Dreary the view! the frost o'erspreads the ground,
And the loud brook with fetters fast is bound.
He mark'd the clouds, from Arctic mountains roll'd,
He call'd to mind the tale by traveller told;

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He thought of distant scenes, of realms unknown,
Where, through all ages, tempests held their throne,
Sounding their ceaseless wrath, whose awful reign
No mortal foot had ever dared profane.—
The fix'd resolve is made! aloud he cried,
“These feet shall dare yon wilds, whate'er betide;
“These eyes explore th' extent yon regions spread,
“Where the young North-wind dwells, the Storm is bred.
“I, who in caves of ice have oft reclined,
“And braced my sinews in the fiercest wind,
“May smile at danger! dangers but invite,
“And storms and tempests were my first delight.
“But if no bound appear, and as I go,
“Wild rocks increase, and mountains veil'd in snow;
“On all sides round more gloomy wastes prevail,
“And, as I journey, bleaker gusts assail;
“Still, shall I learn to brave the polar storm,
“And gaze on Nature in her rudest form.”

Through the thick mists no cheering sun-beams shone;
His sledge prepared, his winter garb put on,
Heedless, he cried “Adieu!” and urged his deer;—
The mother and her children dropp'd the tear!
Now the bold Cossack many a hill had past,
Though each appear'd more threat'ning than the last;
Whilst all befcre, far as his eye could strain,
Seem'd Ruin's ancient unexplored domain.

With heart too proud to temporize with fear,
The hardy Markoff pass'd each mountain drear;
He cross'd the long continuous waste of plain,
He reach'd each distant summit, but, in vain;
Beyond him still, bounding his utmost sight,
Hills rise o'er hills, clad in eternal white.

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And now he came where not a guide was nigh,
Save (mid the valley bare, or crag on high,
From certain death the wanderer's step to warn)
Some solitary Pine by tempests shorn.
He stood, and mark'd the desolation wide;
His mild companions tremble by his side!
And whilst he strives the chilling blast to bear,
And hears the whirlwind thund'ring through the air;
Fear shakes at length his frame, he dreads his fate,
He sees his rashness, but, alas, too late!
With resolution warring with dismay,
Back he returns to trace his devious way;
But, now the scene seems wilder than before,
The Smoke-frosts rise, the cracking Iceburgs roar!
Weary, the patient deer their path pursue,
Where never man abode, or herbage grew.
The prospect round appear'd one yawning grave,
And, mid each pause the fitful tempest gave,

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No howl from starving wolf invades his ear,
To soothe him with the thought that — Life is near.

Now, thicker shadows gather o'er his head;
New terrors rise, till hope itself is fled;
And, to augment Despair's o'erwhelming tide,
His faithful beasts fall frozen by his side!
From succour far, chain'd to the icy ground,
With phrensied look the Cossack gazes round;
Longs on the clouds that southward take their flight
To seek again his dwelling of delight;
“Ah, vain desire!” he cries, “no more mine eye
“Shall mark that calm abode, that tranquil sky!
“The wrathful elements around me rave;
“No friend to comfort me! no power to save!
“Why did I seek mid wilds, like these, to stray?
“And why forget the perils of the way?
“My children now shall mourn no father near!
“My wife shall drop the unavailing tear!
“Cold chills of death creep through my shivering form!
“Markoff, thy hour is come! thou ruthless storm,
“Spare me one moment! keep thy wrath above!
“'Tis hard to die, far from the friends we love!”
Once more he thought upon his home, and sigh'd!
Once more he cast a look — on every side!—

What forms are those, which, through the plain below,
Speed undiverted, scattering wide the snow?
It is a band of Sable Hunters, bold!
Rise! Markoff, rise! shout, ere thy heart be cold!

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He calls! they heed him not! again he calls!
They hear a voice! the sound each breast appals!
They pause! they look around! they see his face!
They haste the lonely wanderer to embrace!
Safe in their sledge he seeks his native vale,
And warns each venturous traveller by his tale!