Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin - The Bronze Horseman - A Petersburg Story lyrics

PROLOGUE On the waste shore of raving waves He stood, with high and dread thoughts filled, And gazed afar. Before him rolled The river wide, a fragile bark Its tortuous path slow making. Upon the moss-grown banks and swamps Stood far asunder smoky huts The homes of Finnish fishers poor; Whilst all around, a forest wild, Unpierced by misty-circled sun, Murmured loud, Gazing far, he thought: From hence we can the Swede best threat; Here must I found a city strong, That shall our haughty foe bring ill; It is by nature's law decreed, That here we break a window through, And boldly into Europe look, And on the sea with sure foot stand; By water path as yet unknown, Shall ships from distant ports arrive, And far and wide our reign extend. A hundred years have pa**ed, and now, In place of forests dark and swamps, A city new, in pomp unmatched, Of Northern lands the pride and gem. Where Finnish fisher once at eve, Harsh nature's poor abandoned child, From low-sunk boat was wont his net With patient toil to cast, and drag The stream, now stretch long lines of quays, Of richest granite formed, and rows Of buildings huge and lordly domes The river front; whilst laden ships From distant quarters of the world Our hungry wharfs fresh spoils supply; And needful bridge its span extends, To join the stream's opposing shores; And islets gay, in verdure clad, Beneath the shades of gardens laugh. Before the youthful city's charms Her head proud Moscow jealous bends, As when the new Tsaitza young The widowed Empress lowly greets. I love thee, work of Peter's hand! I love thy stern, symmetric form; The Neva's calm and queenly flow Betwixt her quays of granite-stone, With iron tracings richly wrought; Thy nights so soft with pensive thought, Their moonless glow, in bright obscure, When I alone, in cosy room, Or write or read, night's lamp unlit; The sleeping piles that clear stand out In lonely streets, and needle bright, That crowns the Admiralty's spire; When, chasing far the shades of night, In cloudless sky of golden pure, Dawn quick usurps the pale twilight, And brings to end her half-hour reign. I love thy winters bleak and harsh; Thy stirless air fast bound by frosts; The flight of sledge o'er Neva wide, That glows the cheeks of maidens gay. I love the noise and chat of balls ; A banquet free from wife's control, Where goblets foam, and bright blue flame Darts round the brimming punch-bowl's edge. I love to watch the martial troops The spacious Field of Mars fast scour; The squadrons spruce of foot and horse; The nicely chosen race of steeds, As gaily housed they stand in line, Whilst o'er them float the tattered flags; The gleaming helmets of the men That bear the marks of battle-shot. I love thee, when with pomp of war The cannons roar from fortress-tower; When Empress-Queen of all the North Hath given birth to royal heir ; Or when the people celebrate Some conquest fresh on battle-field; Or when her bonds of ice once more The Neva, rushing free, upheaves, The herald sure of spring's rebirth. Fair city of the hero, hail! Like Russia, stand unmoved and firm! And let the elements subdued Make lasting peace with thee and thine. Let angry Finnish waves forget Their bondage ancient and their feud; Nor let them with their idle hate Disturb great Peter's d**hless sleep! It was a day of fear and dread, In book of memory still writ. And now, for you, my friends, the tale Of that day's woe I will begin; And mournful will my story be. CANTO THE FIRST O'er Peter's cloud-wrapt city hung November's autumn cold and mist. With noisy splash of angry wave The Neva chafed her granite fence, As one, confined to bed with pain, Will peevish toss from side to side. The hour was late, and it was dark, The rain beat hard on window-pane, The wind with mournful howl roared loud, When young Evjenie bade his friends Adieu, and homeward turned his steps. Evjenie is our hero's name, A name that lightly falls in verse, And one my pen is used to write. No interest his surname has, Though in the olden times gone by, May be, it was in high repute; We meet with it in Karamsin, Like other once familiar names; But now 'tis lost and all unknown. In district called Kolumna lived Our hero, who in office served. His chiefs he feared, but patient bore d**h of relations dear and near, Or world's neglect of service past. Evjenie reached his home, uphung His cloak, undressed, and went to bed. But long it was before he slept; A host of cares possessed his brain. He thought... of what? That he was poor And hard must toil, if he would bare Existence get, in freedom live, Or have his neighbour's good repute. Wished that God had but endowed him With greater wit, or better, wealth; For in our world are those who have No wit, and never think to work, And still contrive to live in ease; Whilst he must drudge and slave, or starve. And then, our hero heard the storm, With fury lashed, still louder rage, And thought the bridges soon across The Neva wide would be removed, And he for two or three whole days Could of Parasha have no news. Such were his thoughts. And all that night His heart within him ached. He prayed The dreary wind would cease to howl, The rain not beat on window-pane So angrily. At length sleep closed His heavy eyes. And now, the last Dark scattered clouds of night began To pale, as dawned the day of doom And woe. All night the Neva wild Had sought escape in open sea, Till 'gainst the storm's mad rage to strive She ceased, her strength completely broke. At morn, along the river's shores, The people thronged and watched with awe The angry splash, the high-tossed foam, And crested tops of heaving waves. But stronger roared, with scream and wail, The furious blast that river forced Retreat, and break its confines low, And drown the isles beneath its waves. More fiercely still the storm-winds raged, Insulted Neva shrieked with pain, Its waters boiled and thundered high, And, like wild beast escaped from cage, Its ruin wide o'er city spread. Before it fled the crowds, and all Was one waste sea. The waters poured, And forced their way through cellar-caves, Beat down the rails of each can*l, Till Petropol, like Triton, stood Plunged deep, breast-high, in ocean's storm. As in a leaguered town, the waves, Like thieves, through windows burst, and sterns Of boats in shivers broke the panes; The awnings frail of fish-barks drenched, The roofs and wreck of ruined homes, The shopman's unsold stores and stock, The year's ,hard savings of the poor, The bridges from their moorings wrenched, And coffins loose from churchyards torn, Swam down the streets. The maddened folk In ruin's work God's wrath beheld, And, trembling, ills yet greater waited; For all was lost, nor could they hope Fresh homes, or food, or help to find. In that year of woe and horror, Tsar Alexander ruled in fame. From palace window, sick at heart And grieved, he looked, and muttered low: "Before dread Nature, might of Tsars Is naught and vain!" And long he sate, And, sobbing, watched the ruin spread. The city squares were changed to lakes, The streets in broad streams swam, and like Abandoned isle the palace stood. Then spake the Tsar.... From point to point rowed Along the near and distant streets Two tried and trusty lords, in boat Began to make their dang'rous way To save the wretches lost in fear, And drowning in their battered homes. Meanwhile in Petroff's gloomy square, Where the new, huge building rises, And where, on either side of porch, There stands, on pedestal high reared, With upraised paw, as large as life, A lion guardian, on the watch: Upon the brute's wide marble back, Without a cap, hands clasped round mane, Evjenie sate, all pale and still. And if his cheeks were wan with fright, It was not for himself he feared. He had not seen the thirsty waves Loud howling rise above his feet; Nor felt the torrents lash his face; Nor heard the sharp, grim shriek of wind, That caught and tossed his cap away. His eyes despairingly were fixed On one far spot, where mountain-high From deep abyss the waters climbed, And, dashing down, before them bore The floating wrecks of waste and spoil. Great God! 'twas where they strove most fierce, The central point of their blind force, On brink of widely swollen gulf, An old house stood, with willow-tree Before and wooden fence, the home Of widow poof and daughter fair, His life's one hope.... Or did he rave, And was it all mere fancy's trick? Or is our life an empty dream, The toy and sport of jesting fate?... And there, as bound by some strong spell, Or chained to marbled lion's back, He sate, and could not stir. Around Was water, water, nothing else. And all the while, face turned from him, Supreme on safe, defiant height, Above the stir of troubled waves, Sate, with his royal hand outstretched, The giant on his steed of bronze. CANTO THE SECOND At length, with work of ruin tired, Her mutiny the Neva ceased, And to her former course returned, In mere revolt her pleasure found, And careless left her prey behind. As on an unprotected town Armed brigands fall, and rob and k**, And naught is heard but cries of grief And rage, vain threats, and panic shrieks, Whilst havoc uncontrolled prevails, Till glut of spoil and fear of law Disarm the thieves, who home retreat And half their booty leave in fright. The waters fell, the vanished roads Once more appeared. With sinking heart, Evjenie, half in hope, in fear And anguish, neared the scarce calmed gulf. Proud of their strength, its sullen waves Muttered and surged, as if beneath Some angry fire still smouldered deep; And fast they rolled in foaming rage, And heavily the Neva breathed, Like panting steed that flies the field. Evjenie looks, and boat discerns, And runs as to a treasure found; In haste he calls the boatman near, Who, bargaining, consents to bring Our hero o'er the storm-tossed stream. And long with tempest-driven waves The skilful oarsman battling strove, And oft the boat is sinking lost, And hurled beneath the cloud-capped crests, As oft upbounds... until at length It touched the shore. The well-known street And friendly spot are eager sought. But dazed he looks, for all is changed, And awful is the sight revealed. A ma** of ruins lies before, In part thrown down, in part waste blank, Houses falling, or laid quite prone, Whilst some are scattered by the waves, Like corpses left on battle-field To rot. Headlong, Evjenie sped, Scarce knowing why or where he rushed, And ill forebodings weighed his heart. And now he comes where fate awaits, As with sealed letter in her hand. The intervening space is pa**ed, With hastened step he nears the house: But what is this he sees? He stopped... Retreated... and once more returned... Bewildered, gazed... went on... looked back. Here is the place their house once stood, And there the willow-tree. The gates Here entrance barred. But where the house? Thoughts of horror now possessed him, As round and round he marched and stared. While whirling words broke from his lips, And with clenched fist his forehead struck. And sudden shrieked with laughter loud. Once more, the friendly shades of night The city fearsome shroud, but few Their couches sought, and long discussed Among themselves, with bated breath, That day of woe. Clear morning's ray From out the pale and wearied clouds The fated city gleamed to cheer. But few the traces were it found Of past night's wreck. With purple pall The ugly work of ill was hid, And life resumed its wonted ways. Again the free and open streets Were thronged with crowds intent on self, And none to give the dead a thought. The sleek-dressed clerk for office left His home. The tradesman, unabashed, His courage kept and oped his vaults The Neva had despoiled, and schemed How best he could his neighbour make Redeem his loss. The cumbered yards Of boats were cleared. And Count Chvostoff, Poet inspired by heavenly muse, In verse immortal, though unread, Failed not to sing of Neptune's wrath. But poor Evjenie, what of him? His mind was tender, easy touched, Nor proof against these griefful woes. The horrid noise of rebel waves And winds loud echoed in his ears. Aimless, he wandered here and there, Strange thoughts revolving in his mind, He ne'er could solve. A demon dream Haunted, followed, and possessed him. A week, a month went by, and he Still heedless roamed, nor home returned; The term elapsed, his room was let To tenant now, poor as himself, Nor did he come his goods to fetch, But soon was lost to world and men. All day the streets he idly strayed, And slept at night in wharf or shed, His food, the crust of bread he begged. His well-worn cloak in tatters hung Each day more loose. And wanton boys Their play would cease, to hurl sharp stones, As he pa**ed by, and coachmen rude With whip aroused him from his daze, As in mid-road he puzzled stood; And on he moved without complaint: A voice within, unheard of men, Had deafened him to outer noise. And so he lived, like one that is Nor beast nor man, nor live nor dead, Nor denizen of earth, nor ghost Of other world. By river-side, He once was sleeping in a wharf; The trees had cast their summer dress, And autumn winds begun to blow. The angry surge beat on the wharf, Nor ceased to dash against its steps; As widow knocked importunate At the unrighteous judge's door. He woke. But all was dark and dull; The rain fell fast; the shrill blasts wailed And in the distance he could hear The echo low of sentry's voice. Up leaped Evjenie; he recalled The horrors of the past, and rose, His aimless roamings to resume. But suddenly he paused, and with Large eyes of fear he slowly scanned The dreary space that stretched around. He found himself beneath the porch Of spacious house. And on the steps, With upraised paws, as large as life, Two lions stood, both keeping guard: Whilst in the darkness, tow'ring high, On pedestal of granite rock, Sate, with his royal hand outstretched, The giant on his steed of bronze. Evjenie shuddered, and his thoughts Grew strangely clear. Again he saw The place where seas had wildly played, Where waves of prey had shrieking roared, And round him dashed with angry whirl: He saw the lions, square, and him, Who with bronze head, and motionless, In the darkness proudly towered, As ever, with his hand outstretched, He watched the city he had built. The poor mad creature wildly roamed Around the rock with aching limbs. And read the words clear cut in stone; And, crushed with grief, his bleeding heart Grew dead within him. And he pressed His burning brow against the rail; A blinding mist came o'er his eyes, And through his frame a shudder ran, As he stood trembling, lost in gloom, Before great Russia's giant Tsar. With finger raised in dumb reproach, He thought to speak. But no word came. And quick he took to headlong flight. It seemed, his face with angry glow Aflame, the all-dread Tsar had turned, And fixed on him his searching gaze; He fled, and, flying, heard behind, Like roll of thunder, loud and sharp, The heavy measured tread of feet. That shook the ground beneath their march: And in the pale moon's silver light, With hand majestic, far outstretched, The Statue Knight of Bronze pursued, High mounted on his lordly steed. And all that night the crazed wretch heard, Where'er he sped his flying steps, In close pursuit the Knight of Bronze, And measured tramp of prancing steed. And from that day, if e'er he chanced To cross the square where statue stood, A troubled stare came o'er his face. And quick he pressed to heart his hand, As if to quell some sharpest pain, And well-worn cap from head removed, Nor daring raise his fear-struck eyes, In stealth slunk by. Close to the beach, An island small is seen. And there Belated fisher anchor casts, And frugal evening meal prepares; Or spruce-dressed citizen in boat, Decked out for Sunday trip, will touch The lone abandoned isle, where not A blade of gra** redeems the waste. Twas there the waters, when they fell, The widow's house had stranded left; And like black bush it rose above Their surface, till in early spring Men came and carted it away. It was all bare, nor found they aught, Save our friend, poor mad Evjenie, On the threshold fallen. And there. With friendly hands, his corpse they laid.