O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling! O Man, thou strange mixture of grandeur and of nothingness! To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth: To-day buoyed up with cheating hope, And to-morrow, where art thou, Man? Scarce an hour of triumph allowed thee Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of Chaos, And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run. Like a dream, like some sweet vision, Already my youth has vanished quite. Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway, Gladness no more, as once, entrances me, My mind is no longer free and fanciful, And all my happiness is changed. I am troubled with a longing for fame; I listen; the voice of fame now calls me. But even so will manhood pass away, And together with fame all my aspirations. The love of wealth will tarnish all, And each passion in its turn Will sway the soul and pass. Avaunt, happiness, that boasts to be within our grasp! All happiness is but evanescent and a lie: I stand at the gate of Eternity. To-day or to-morrow we must die, Perfílev, and all is ended. Why, then, lament or be afflicted That thy friend did not live for ever? Life is but a momentary loan from Heaven: Spend it then in resignation and in peace, And with a pure soul Learn to kiss the chastening rod. --From C. E. Turner’s _Studies in Russian Literature_, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877. FELÍTSA[148] Godlike queen of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,[149] whose incomparable wisdom discovered the true path for the young Tsarévich Khlor, by which to climb the high mountain where grows the rose without prickles, where virtue dwells that captivates my soul and my mind! Oh, teach me how to find it! Instruct me, Felítsa, how to live voluptuously, yet justly; how to tame the storm of passions, and be happy in the world. Your voice enthuses me, your son guides me, but I am weak to follow them. Disturbed by worldly cares, I control myself to-day, to-morrow am a slave of my caprices. You do not emulate your Murzas,[150] and frequently go on foot; the simplest food is served at your table. You disdain your rest, and read and write by the tallow dip, and from your pen flows bliss to all the mortals.[151] Nor do you play cards, like me, from morning until morning.[152] You do not care overmuch for masquerades, and do not set your foot into a club. You keep old customs and habits, and make no Don Quixote of yourself. You do not saddle the steed of Parnassus,[153] do not attend the séances, to see spirits,[154] do not go to the East[155] from your throne; but, walking on the path of humility, your gracious soul passes an even tenor of useful days.