Page:The Russian Review Volume 1.djvu/171

Rh

Ah, my muse, she is dead! 'Twas not long her beams bright Did illumine my days, full of loneliness drear, Now the lights are all dark, and the flowers are all sear, And the night, like a grave, gives no promise of light.

Tis in vain in my heart, troubled, weary, and torn, That I seek those sweet sounds which awaken new life: For my fragrant, bright wreath lies there trampled, forlorn, Songless now is my grief, ever songless my strife.

Yet in years now gone by, in my poor, humble home, Ah, what marvels and miracles came to my sight! I would wish it, and heaven's magnificent dome O'er my head would unfold its outpouring of light;

And the silvery surface of lakes would appear, And the columns of glorious palaces rise, And the snow-covered mountains their tops proudly rear, With their sharp, rugged ridges upreaching the skies.

Now, alas! I'm alone And unpleasant, and drear The deserted, lone corner my hungry gaze meets, Like a black, gloomy bird, bringing harrowing fear, Stormy night with its wings on my window-pane beats.

Splendid fanes of bright marbles have crumbled to dust, Lofty mounts with their grandeur are lost in the haze, And my heart bleeds again at each new, cruel thrust, Tears of impotent rage flow, beclouding my gaze.

Ah, my muse, she is dead! 'Twas not long her beams bright Did illumine my days, full of loneliness drear, Now the lights are all dark, and the flowers are all sear, And the night, like a grave, gives no promise of light.