LERMONTOFF.

THE ANGEL

Soft singing at midnight through heaven’s high blue
  A beautiful angel once flew;
The moon and the stars and the clouds in a throng
  Attended his wonderful song!

He sang of the bliss of those gardens and coasts
  Where live and exult the pure ghosts,
Their songs glad extolling Almighty’s grace
  Repeated from race unto race.

In his arms he was bearing a young soul below,
  To leave in this world of our woe,
The strains of his singing within her soul beat—­
  A wordless song, living and sweet!

Long languished her soul in its earthly abode,
  With a heavenly longing o’erflowed,
For ne’er were those holy, pure strains of her birth,
  Effaced by the songs of the earth.

LERMONTOFF.

A PRAYER

Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling,
Image miraculous and merciful—­of thee
Not for my soul’s health nor battles waged, beseeching,
Nor yet with thanks or penitence o’erwhelming me!

Not for myself,—­my heart with guilt o’erflowing—­
Who in my home land e’er a stranger has remained,
No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing,
That thou protect her innocence unstained!

Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her! 
Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side,
A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil,
A spirit where together peace and hope abide.

Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending,
Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night—­
From out thy highest heaven, thy fairest angel sending
The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight!

LERMONTOFF.

THE SAIL

A single sail is bleaching brightly
  Upon the waves caressing bland,
What seeks it in a stranger country? 
  Why did it leave its native strand? 
When winds pipe high, load roar the billows
  And with a crashing bends the mast,
It does not shun its luckless fortune,
  Nor haste to port before the blast. 
To-day the sea is clear as azure,
  The sun shines gaily, faint the wind—­
But it revolting, looks for tempest,
  And dreams in storms its peace to find!

LERMONTOFF.

Lermontoff, being reproached by the critics of his time for imitation of Byron in this poem, defended himself by the following, “I am not Byron!"

I AM NOT BYRON

I am not Byron—­yet I am
One fore-elected, yet one more
Unknown, world-hunted wanderer,
A Russian in my mood and mind.

Scant from my seed the corn was ripe,
My mouth spoke young, was early hushed;
In depths of my own soul, the wreck
Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk.