By spiritual thirst opprest, I hied me to the desert dim, When lo! upon my path appeared The holy six-winged seraphim. My brow his fingers lightly pressed, Soothing my eyelids into rest: Open my inward vision flies, As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes. He touched my ears, and they were filled With sounds that all my being thrilled. I felt a trembling fill the skies, I heard the sweep of angels’ wings, Beneath the sea saw creeping things, And in the valleys vines arise. Over my lips awhile he hung, And tore from me my sinful tongue-- The babbling tongue of vanity. The sting of serpent’s subtlety Within my lips, as chilled I stood, He placed, with right hand red with blood. Then with a sword my bosom cut, And forth my quivering heart he drew; A glowing coal of fire he put Within my breast laid bare to view. As corpse-like on the waste I lay, Thus unto me God’s voice did say-- “Prophet, arise! confess My Name; Fulfil My will; submit to Me! Arise! go forth o’er land and sea, And with high words men’s hearts inflame!” ⁂ Play, my Kathleen; No sorrow know. The Graces flowers Around thee throw. Thy little cot They softly swing, And bright for thee Dawns life’s fresh spring. For all delights Thou hast been born; Catch, catch wild joys, In life’s young morn! Thy tender years To love devote; While hums the world, Love my pipe’s note. _A MONUMENT._[7] I’ve raised myself no statue made with hands; The People’s path to it no weeds will hide. Rising with no submissive head, it stands Above the pillar of Napoleon’s pride. No! I shall never die; in sacred strains My soul survives my dust, and flies decay-- And famous shall I be, while there remains A single Poet ’neath the light of day. Through all great Russia will go forth my fame, And every tongue in it will name my name; And by the nation long shall I be loved, Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved; Because I strove to serve them with my song, And called forth mercy for the fallen throng. Hear God’s command, O Muse, obediently, Nor dread reproach, nor claim the Poet’s bay; To praise and blame alike indifferent be, And let fools say their say! FOOTNOTES: [7] Like our Shakespeare, Pushkin knew his own merits. _THE POET._ Until Apollo calls the Bard To share the holy sacrifice, Plunged in the petty cares of life The Poet’s spirit lies. Silent and still his sacred lyre, His soul to sleep a prey, Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seems More worthless, p’raps, than they. But once the sacred summons rings And strikes his eager ears, The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused, On upward pinion steers.