Scans the starry skies. 
See! far as the eye can venture,
  All sleeps as before—­
No, the threat of dreaming Orient
  Frights me nevermore!”
“Laugh thou not too early, Kasbek,”
  Elbrus did persist—­
“Look!  What vast mass is it turning
  Northward, through the mist?”
Secretly the heart of Kasbek
  Faltered,—­as amazed,
Silent and with dark foreboding
  To the North he gazed: 
Full of woe stared in the distance;
  What a thronging swarm! 
Hark! there rings the clash of weapons! 
  Battle-cry alarm! 
From the Don unto the Ural
  What a human sea! 
Regiments that wave and glitter
  Past all counting be! 
Feathers white like sedge of ocean,
  Waving in a gust—­
Many coloured Uhlans storming
  Through the blowing dust. 
The imperial battalions
  Densely packed proceed,
Trumpets flaring, banners flying
  In the victor’s lead. 
Batteries with brasses rattling
  Conquering advance,
With their blood-red splendor flashing
  Cannon matches glance. 
And a battle-proved commander
  Leads the army there—­
From whose eyes the lightning flashes,
  ’Neath his snowy hair. 
Swells the host until as Griesbach’s
  Billows roaring loud,
From the Eastward nears the army
  As a thunder cloud. 
Kasbek peered with sinister boding
  Through the clouds,—­would fain
Count his enemies approaching—­
  Found it was in vain: 
Threw one glance unto the mountains—­
  Anguished, overcome,
O’er his brow drew close the vapours,
  Was forever dumb.

LERMONTOFF.

HEAVEN AND THE STARS

Brilliant heavens of evening,
  Distant stars clearly shining,
  Bright as the rapture of childhood,
O why dare I send you nevermore greeting—­
Stars, who are shining as clear as my joy? 
  What is thy sorrow? 
  Mortals make question. 
  This is my sorrow;
The heavens and the stars are—­heaven and stars ever,
I am alas! but a perishing man! 
  Forever mortal
  Envies his neighbor;
  I envy rather
Ye in your freedom, ye stars ever radiant,
And only would be in your places!

LERMONTOFF.

ON NAPOLEON’S DEATH

Cold hears thy soul the praise or cursing of posterity. 
Quit of the human race, thou man of destiny! 
They only could o’erthrow, who thee did elevate—­
Forever thus remains thy greatness great!

LERMONTOFF.

ON THE DEATH OF PUSHKIN

He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,
A sacrifice to slander’s lust;
The haughty Poet’s head, the noblest,
Bowed on his wounded breast in dust. 
No longer could his free soul suffer
The vulgar world’s low infamy;
He rose against the world’s opinion,
And as a hero, lone fell he.