The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival :: :: University of Virginia Library

[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.”

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.

Above its roof, a Grecian crosslet, shining,
Points to the pious serf his heavenward way;

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Around it spreads, bestrewn with blossoms gay,
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.

[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.”

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.

'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.

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.

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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?”

“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?

“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.

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.

[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.”

Still Spring returns, and scatters wide its roses;
The nightingale in leafy thicket sings,

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And heavenward mounts the lark on quivering wings;
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.

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!

[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.”

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.

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.

O, how strong the love of country glows
In the peasant's heart, when all is gone,

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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.

2. PART II.

RUSSIA.

[I. Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old]

“Niczto!—no Ty wo mnie sijaesz
Weliczestwom Twoich debrot;
Wo mnie sebia izobraz'aesz,
Kak solnce w maloy kaplie wod.”—
Derzhavin.

“Nothing!—but thou shinest in me with the majesty of thy goodness; in me thou imagest thyself, like the sun in a little drop of water.”

Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old
Elijah called, on Carmel, on the name,
The one sole name; and see! it mounts in flame,
Just on the limits of eternal cold.

Pure, bright, and full, it swells;—a sacred glow
Rolls o'er the spotless wilderness of snow,
And floating flakes of crystal burn as gems,
Worthy to shine in angels' diadems:

And then, in sounding tones, come thoughts of power,
Full of sublimity and truth and awe:
Thunders in majesty the unyielding law;
Relenting grace descends in healing shower.

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We feel as nothing in the infinite:
We feel that infinite within our souls,—
Away the cloud of doubt and darkness rolls;
Our spirits stand, assured and free, in light.

[II. Not the trumpet calls to fight]

“Och wy Ruskïe dobrye molodcy!
Nadiewayte wy sabli wostryia,
Czto idet zlodiey na swiatuju Rus.”—
Shulepnikov. “Hey, brave Russian youths!
Gird your swords so keen,
For your holy land the foe invades.”

Not the trumpet calls to fight,—
Louder calls the patriot Tzar.
Strongly armed with sword and right,
We rush to war.

Treads the Frank our holy land,
By the world-invader led,—
Soon we make the ruffian band
Its gory bed.

Moscow's fire, an altar-flame,
Lights us through a waste of snow;
On, through ice, we chase the game
With fervid glow.

Louder than the trumpet's peal,
Rings the voice of patriot Tzar;—
With fiery hearts and flashing steel,
We rush to war.

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SERVIA.

[I. Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword]

“Zemalsko je za maleno carstwo,
A nebesko u wek i do weka.”—
N. S P. (Tzar Lazar.) “Small and transient is an earthly kingdom,
But the heavenly is now and ever.”

“Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword,—
Go forth, and rush upon the turbaned foe:
Strong be the hand that deals the deadly blow;
That hand shall scatter wide the Turkish horde.”

“Thine shall be earthly power and fame; but know,
The gates of Heaven shall ever on thee close;—
In vain for thee the stream of mercy flows,
For thou hast chosen thy good, thy all, below.

“Pause on the field, and bend thyself in prayer;
Yield reverently unto thy God and Lord;
Listen the hopes and terrors of his word.
Then thou shalt fall,—thy better lot is there,—
Thy crown shall be in Heaven.” He knelt and prayed;
He marched and fought, and low in death was laid.

[II. For faith and fame! be that the cry]

“Srbli wiczu: za wjeru risztiansku,
I za slawu imena Srpskoga!”—
N. S. P. “Cry the Servians: For the faith of Christians,
And the glory of the name of Servia!”

For faith and fame! be that the cry.
We have our pride, and we our fame;—
Heroes, of high and mighty name,
On thousand fields of battle lie.

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Long centuries we in arms have stood;
Have kept our faith, when others fell:
The Turk might crush, he could not quell;—
Our covenant we have sealed in blood.

Our land is free,—the cross alone
Shines o'er our vales, and crowns our hills:
The peasant reaps the soil he tills;
The Moslem vultures far have flown.

Again they come!—like clouds of night,
They hang along yon mountain's brow.
Rise, Servians! be heroes now;—
This be the last and fatal fight.

Hark to the charge! their Allahu,
It rings, not ours,—it rings their knell.
Rush to the shock, and, bursting through,
Leave not a Turk the tale to tell.

POLAND.

[I. Thou standest as a castle on a rock]

“Dzis sepy czarnem skrzydlem oblatuja groby,
Jak w miescie, ktore calkiem wybije zaraza,
Wiecznie z baszt powiewaja choragwie z'aloby.”
Mickiewicz. “Now, black-winged vultures hover over graves,
As in a town, by wasting plague consumed,
Wave ever funeral-banners on the walls.”

Thou standest as a castle on a rock,
Dismantled, dark;—the hospitable flame
No longer lights its halls; unknown to fame,
The simple shepherd shelters there his flock.

With trumpet-peal its gilded arches rung;
Forth from its gates the lordly champions rode;

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Bannered and helmed, the dazzling torrent flowed;
On tower and keep the royal standard hung.

A fire has swept along those festive halls;
Broken and toppling, reel the blackened walls;
The voice of love and hope and joy is gone.
Like funeral-flags, the raven spreads his wings;
In chambers once the proud abode of kings,
Now dwell the lizard and the owl alone.

[II. Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready]

“Zemsta pospiech radzi.
Juz' pojechali—Niech ich Bog prowadzi.”—
Slowacki. “Vengeance bids haste.
Already they are gone—may God conduct them.”

Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready!
Rouse ye, in the name of God.
Onward, onward! strong and steady;—
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod.
Vengeance calls! ye brave, ye brave!
Rise, and spurn the name of slave.

Grasp the sword! its edge is keen:
Seize the gun! its ball is true:
Sweep your land from tyrants clean,—
Haste, and scour it through and through.
Onward, onward!—vengeance cries.
Rush to arms,—the tyrant flies.

By the souls of patriots gone,
Wake! arise! your fetters break!
See, Kosciuszko bids you on!
Hark, Sobieski cries, Awake!
Rise, and front the despot Czar,—
Rise, and dare the unequal war.

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Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready!
Think of what your sires have been.
Onward, onward! strong and steady;—
Drive the tyrant to his den.
On, and let the watchword be,
Country, home, and liberty!

BOHEMIA.

[I. The rose now blooms,—with love my bosom heaves]

“Wyrostla mnie bjla ruoz'e, ga gi trhat nebudu;
Milowala gsem Wencliczka, wjc milowat nebudu.”
Czesk. Nar. Pjsn. “Full for me the rose has opened, but I will not pluck the rose;
I have given my heart to Wensly, but I'll love the youth no more.”

The rose now blooms,—with love my bosom heaves;
It fades and withers,—sorrow chills my heart:
The cold rains trickle o'er the faded leaves,—
Tears from their secret fount unbidden start.

The dewy morning rises fresh and fair,—
Hope comes again, to wake my love anew:
With blooms of May the maiden wreathes her hair,—
Joy swells my heart, as swells the rose with dew.

Thus flows the Cheskian song; the song thus flows
In Servia's vales, on Russia's boundless plains,
By Visla's banks, unfettered or in chains,
Where'er the pure Slavonian spirit glows.
Ages have rolled away, yet still remain
The seeds, that time and force have crushed in vain.

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[II. A holy feeling leads them on]

“Kdoz' gste Boz'j bogownjky
A zakona geho.”—
Zizka. “Ye warriors of God, and of his law.”

A holy feeling leads them on;
For God their swords they draw:
Their chief, the fearless champion
Of God, and of his law.

Not theirs, the strength of mortal fight;
Religion nerves their hands:
They lift their arms for truth and right;
For faith, each warrior stands.

The ardent hymn, the solemn prayer,
Instead of trump and drum,
Tell to their enemies: “Beware!—
The sacred legions come.”

With brow serene and steady eye,
Firm foot and measured tread,—
“Huss!” burst at once the battle-cry,—
“His blood for truth was shed.”

And loud, as pealing thunder, breaks
From thousand hearts their hymn:
Headlong they rush,—earth 'neath them shakes,—
Smoke rolls,—the day is dim.

“Huss!” swells the cry, and Zizka's shout
Rings through the roar of war.
The foe recoils,—he breaks in rout
And scatters wide and far.

“Glory to God!” the victory song;—
“Praise him,—the field is won.
He only makes the warrior strong.
His will—his will be done!”