Mikhail Lermontov: Gifts of the Terek

Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov

(Михаи́л Ю́рьевич Ле́рмонтов 1814 – 1841)

 

Gifts of the Terek

 

Mid huge rocks, the Terek, leaping,

Onward courses, wild and fierce.

Like a storm he howls, and, weeping,

Sprays the cliffs with angry tears.

But he broadens out on reaching

The great steppe and waxes meek.

To the sea in half beseeching,

Friendly tones we hear him speak:

 

"Give my waters refuge, ancient,

Give them shelter, Caspian Sea.

Long enough have they, impatient,

Roamed the hills, it seems to me.

Sired by peaks Caucasian soaring,

By the clouds above them fed,

They dispute man’s rule, and, roaring,

Rush impetuous ahead.

They have robbed Daryal of treasure,

Herds of boulders, free of fear,

For your sons’ delight and pleasure

Driving off year after year."

 

But the Caspian Sea is drowsy

And he does not seem to hear,

And the Terek, his friend rousing,

Murmurs softly in his ear:

 

"Here’s a gift, a rich one, for you -

A Kabardian who fell

On a battlefield. Before you

He is lying, cold and still.

Precious is his mail of iron;

On his elbow guards – behold!-

Lines from the Koran incised are,

All in lettering of gold.

Dead, he wears a look unbending,

Knit his brows are, while a trace

Of dark blood his lip stains, lending

Something solemn to his face.

On it enmity is graven,

And ’tis mirrored in his stare.

Round his neck there steals a raven

Lock of wet and matted hair."

 

But the Caspian Sea is pensive

And to answer does not deign,

And the Terek, apprehensive,

Pauses and then speaks again.

 

"Look, O sea, I have another

Gift to offer – take it, pray.

From the world, my friend and brother,

I have kept it hid away.

Tis a Cossack maid, a daughter

Of the steppes. Long has she been

Cradled by my friendly waters,

Long no man the maid has seen.

Fair is she, her hair a gleaming

Mass of gold, and seems at rest,

With the blood still thinly streaming

From the wound that mars her breast.

On the shore, come night, come morning,

Crowd her people, young and old.

All save one her death are mourning,

All save one young Cossack bold.

The Chechens he battles, smiting

Right and left, his sword held high.

In the hills he is and fighting,

And ’tis fighting he will die."

 

Low the Terek’s voice is growing

As the sandy shore he laves,

While a maid’s head, pale hair flowing,

Bobs and bounces on the waves.

 

And the sea, huge billows raising,

Fearful as a thunderstorm,

Starts awake, his blue eyes blazing,

Full of passion newly born.

 

Swept by sudden joy and rapture,

With love’s tenderest whisper, he

Folds the waters and their capture

To his old heart eagerly.

 

1839

Mikhail Lermontov poetry

kempis poetry magazine

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