The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival With a biographical sketch |
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 | The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival |  |
1. PART I.
[_]
[The following series of Sonnets is applicable to the four leading branches of the Slavonic race, namely: the first two, to the Russian; the third, to the Servian; the fourth, to the Polish; and the fifth, to the Bohemian.]
[I. Near Moskva's stream, through heath and forest gliding]
“Malenkoy krolik w trawkie zelenoy
S miloy podruz'koy tam otdychaet;
Golub na wietoczkie spit.”—
Karamsin. “There, in the green grass, softly reposes,
Close by his dear little loveling, the cony;
There the dove sleeps on the bough.”
S miloy podruz'koy tam otdychaet;
Golub na wietoczkie spit.”—
Karamsin. “There, in the green grass, softly reposes,
Close by his dear little loveling, the cony;
There the dove sleeps on the bough.”
Near Moskva's stream, through heath and forest gliding,
Deep in a river-vale, by meadow green,
Embowered in beech, a lonely church is seen,
Like timid fawn in dewy thicket hiding.
Deep in a river-vale, by meadow green,
Embowered in beech, a lonely church is seen,
Like timid fawn in dewy thicket hiding.
Above its roof, a Grecian crosslet, shining,
Points to the pious serf his heavenward way;
Around it spreads, bestrewn with blossoms gay,
The field, where wearied hearts are safe reclining.
Points to the pious serf his heavenward way;
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The field, where wearied hearts are safe reclining.
O'er swelling graves, the bounding rabbit plays;
All breathes of peace and gentleness around;
Light steals the maiden by; subdued each sound;
Even fainter glances there the evening blaze.
There, nestling side by side, at twilight's close,
Soft coo the billing doves, and then repose.
All breathes of peace and gentleness around;
Light steals the maiden by; subdued each sound;
Even fainter glances there the evening blaze.
There, nestling side by side, at twilight's close,
Soft coo the billing doves, and then repose.
[II. Inspiring Spirit! thou art everywhere]
“Tam widiel gory nad soboiu,
I sprasziwal, kotoroy wiek
Zastal ich w molodosti suszczich.”—
Dmitriev. “There I saw above me mountains,
And I asked of them, what century
Met them in their youth.”
I sprasziwal, kotoroy wiek
Zastal ich w molodosti suszczich.”—
Dmitriev. “There I saw above me mountains,
And I asked of them, what century
Met them in their youth.”
Inspiring Spirit! thou art everywhere.
The forest and the desert; ocean's breast;
The ice-peak, where the condor builds his nest;
The plain; the hill; the vale;—thou still art there.
The forest and the desert; ocean's breast;
The ice-peak, where the condor builds his nest;
The plain; the hill; the vale;—thou still art there.
'T is not alone on Zion's holy height,
Nor on Parnassus, thou hast reared thy shrine:
Thy kindling voice and energy divine
Are felt in realms of old Cimmerian night.
Nor on Parnassus, thou hast reared thy shrine:
Thy kindling voice and energy divine
Are felt in realms of old Cimmerian night.
By Volga's princely stream, thy fiery car
Uplifts the gifted soul, that owns thy sway,
Aloft, above the gilded dome of Tzar;—
O'er boundless steppes and dusky wilds away,
O'er castled hill, where reigns the proud Boyar,
Free, amid slaves, he mounts to meet thy day.
Uplifts the gifted soul, that owns thy sway,
Aloft, above the gilded dome of Tzar;—
O'er boundless steppes and dusky wilds away,
O'er castled hill, where reigns the proud Boyar,
Free, amid slaves, he mounts to meet thy day.
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[III. What is that descending yonder mountain?]
“Trepetin li nowi wenci na naszoj snaszi?
Wije li se crwen barjak nad milim kumom?
Jeli zdrawo kon̄ zelenko pod mladoz'en̄om?”—
Nar. Srp. Pjesm. “Tremble not new-woven garlands there on our sister?
Waves not the crimson banner over the sponsor?
Is not strong the dapple-gray under the bridegroom?”
Wije li se crwen barjak nad milim kumom?
Jeli zdrawo kon̄ zelenko pod mladoz'en̄om?”—
Nar. Srp. Pjesm. “Tremble not new-woven garlands there on our sister?
Waves not the crimson banner over the sponsor?
Is not strong the dapple-gray under the bridegroom?”
“What is that descending yonder mountain?
Waves the Aga's crimson flag afar?
Comes the Turkish wolf to wage us war?
Or does shepherd lead his flock to fountain?
Waves the Aga's crimson flag afar?
Comes the Turkish wolf to wage us war?
Or does shepherd lead his flock to fountain?
“Yonder see the wedding-banner flying,—
Garlands waving in the maiden's hair;—
O, how tall and slender, fresh and fair!”
So the long expectant train is crying.
Garlands waving in the maiden's hair;—
O, how tall and slender, fresh and fair!”
So the long expectant train is crying.
Give this happy day aloose to joy;
Glad the heart with instrument and song;
Flit, with maiden dear, in dance along;
Let not care nor thought your bliss annoy!
Under slavery's chain the bosom swells;—
There, the fount of gentle feeling wells.
Glad the heart with instrument and song;
Flit, with maiden dear, in dance along;
Let not care nor thought your bliss annoy!
Under slavery's chain the bosom swells;—
There, the fount of gentle feeling wells.
[IV. Still Spring returns, and scatters wide its roses]
“Piekny to widok Czertomeliku,
Sto wysp przerz'nely Dniepru strumienie,
Brzoza sie kapie w kaz'dym strumyku,
Slychac szum trzciny, slowika pienie.”
—Slowacki. “How beautiful this view of Czertomelik!
The Dnieper's streams divide a hundred islands;
In every stream the birch-tree dips its branches;
We hear the murmuring reed, and night-bird warbling.”
Sto wysp przerz'nely Dniepru strumienie,
Brzoza sie kapie w kaz'dym strumyku,
Slychac szum trzciny, slowika pienie.”
—Slowacki. “How beautiful this view of Czertomelik!
The Dnieper's streams divide a hundred islands;
In every stream the birch-tree dips its branches;
We hear the murmuring reed, and night-bird warbling.”
Still Spring returns, and scatters wide its roses;
The nightingale in leafy thicket sings,
And heavenward mounts the lark on quivering wings;
In flowery pomp the silent plain reposes.
The nightingale in leafy thicket sings,
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In flowery pomp the silent plain reposes.
Nature is still the same, unchanging ever;
She brings her gifts with each returning year,
And lavish pours her horn of plenty here,
By castled hill and silver-sheeted river.
She brings her gifts with each returning year,
And lavish pours her horn of plenty here,
By castled hill and silver-sheeted river.
Still lordly Dnieper rolls as wild and free,
As when the Polish banner graced its shore;—
That banner waves along its banks no more;
Through isles as green it seeks the Pontic sea.
Nature is ever free!—Why should the brave
And noble heart of Poland sink,—a slave!
As when the Polish banner graced its shore;—
That banner waves along its banks no more;
Through isles as green it seeks the Pontic sea.
Nature is ever free!—Why should the brave
And noble heart of Poland sink,—a slave!
[V. By Muldava trips a rose-lipped maiden]
“Gdi, ma mila, gdi do lesa;
Podjwey se geli rosa:
Rosyczka ge piekna bjla,
Roste na nj rosmaryna,
Bude gj z'jt moge mila.”—
Czesk. Nar. Pjsn. “Go, my dearest, to the wood;
See if still the dew is there:
Lovely is the early dew;
In it grows the rosemary;
Thou shalt on it live, my love.”
Podjwey se geli rosa:
Rosyczka ge piekna bjla,
Roste na nj rosmaryna,
Bude gj z'jt moge mila.”—
Czesk. Nar. Pjsn. “Go, my dearest, to the wood;
See if still the dew is there:
Lovely is the early dew;
In it grows the rosemary;
Thou shalt on it live, my love.”
By Muldava trips a rose-lipped maiden,—
She has crowned her hat with summer flowers;
Fresh and dewy as the fabled Hours,
There she trips along, with blossoms laden.
She has crowned her hat with summer flowers;
Fresh and dewy as the fabled Hours,
There she trips along, with blossoms laden.
How the valley with her voice is ringing,
Like the evening songster's, soft and clear!
In her happy eye a sparkling tear:
She a simple Cheskian lay is singing.
Like the evening songster's, soft and clear!
In her happy eye a sparkling tear:
She a simple Cheskian lay is singing.
O, how strong the love of country glows
In the peasant's heart, when all is gone,
King and state, his language left alone,
Blooming still, as over graves the rose.
From his bosom pours the stream of song,
Full, in artless melody, along.
In the peasant's heart, when all is gone,
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Blooming still, as over graves the rose.
From his bosom pours the stream of song,
Full, in artless melody, along.
| The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | |